#(( also the thought of these two married with a small smatter of kids... my heart. ))

[crimsonfacets]

lowkey highkey flipping out because I found an artist drawing chag.gie as pepa/félix how perfect is that

uno

dos

tres

[notmrskennedy]

Professor, pt 1

A/N - so i heard from like four of you which is enough to warrant me posting drafts that weren’t supposed to see the light of day - ANYWAY this was originally written in third person and let me tell you it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to change tenses like holy hell. 

(Technically the prequel Friendliness but can stand alone if you really want it to. There’s a part two to this so watch out for that tomorrow.)

Summary - Spencer meets a professor and falls in love for a few hours

W/C - 2k

Warnings - none-ish? there’s a small smattering of violence and horrible changing of the tenses 

-----

Spencer can’t help the irony that he’s in a freshman college class for the first time ever while protecting one of the students. Who knew that a tiny club of DnD players could incite so much rage out of an un-sub? So here he was, trying to blend in—even though he’s 25, he still looks 14 and there’s really no real reason why he should be worried about being caught—in order to protect a freshman who was more pimple than male specimen. 

Joesph—the poor kid in question—takes a seat in the front row and Spencer’s obligated to sit within tackling distance, though he hopes it won’t come to that. Hopefully, Morgan will have the kid the un-sub goes for and Spencer can just enjoy being in college again. The painfully familiar auditorium seats, the stale air, and bad fluorescents feel more like home than he cares to admit. 

College hadn’t been all too unpleasant. High school he’d gotten picked on mercilessly. College, however, had meant getting doted on by hot sorority girls and earning the protection of frat boys—they’d picked up rather quickly that he knew football strategy better than they did after Spencer had hustled a TV and 400 dollars from them. Sure, he didn’t drink, but every single drunk teenager had welcomed him with open arms and lots of ginger ale. 

There’s chatter and for the ten minutes before class starts, Spencer is torn between trying to figure out which song is quietly playing around the room and watching for a particularly rage-filled college student serial killer. Instead, he just finds too many bored faces. Most of the kids are drinking coffee like the best of them and he’s itching for his next fix just looking at it. 

The first two rows: a terrible vantage point to be profiling, but a beautifully defensible post. He watches absently as one of the TAs, who looks a little younger than him, organizes three stacks of papers on the front desk and flips through several different pages on the podium. His attention is focused solely on you for nearly a minute too long—he can hear the voice in his head chastising him for how often he gets distracted by pretty people. 

You look of the fragile sort, the in-the-lab kind of future scientist. There’s something about you that’s captivating. It might be the way you keep reorganizing the papers to perfection or maybe it’s the way you study the room so closely. And while he thinks that you might not be able to physically stop someone, you sure look like the kind of person that could crush him in chess. 

He’s 25 and is considering chess as a marriage proposal.  

Joesph shuffles his books around in the seat in front of Spencer and you, the beautiful TA in question, hold a watch up as you move to the centre of the room. Class is starting. Class is starting and he’s hopeful the professor never actually shows up. 

He notices your watch is on your right wrist—are you left handed?—as you smile widely and clap her hands together. First day jitters seem to keep everyone silent, waiting on baited breath for you to start. Spencer would stay on baited breath for the rest of his life for you. You were utterly captivating after all—he could see the drool from several students’ mouths a few seats over. 

“This is Anthropology 101,” you announce. “If this isn’t your class, you’re free to leave. Or stay if you want. Did you guys know that anxiety disorders affect more than 40 million US adults? Or 1 in 5, I guess, if you want the easier pill to swallow.”

Spencer’s heart jumps into his throat and he wants to raise his hand just to ask you to marry him. 

“Anyway,” you sigh, leaning back agains the front desk, “I spit out a lot of facts. Usually something that begins with ‘did you know’ won’t be on the tests. I try to be fair. Which brings us to ice breakers.”

The class collectively groans. You scoff. 

“Oh hush, I’m the only one doing the ice breakers so chill out. Jeez.” Spencer waits patiently for your soft breath and then your further announcement of, “I’m officially Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, but that’s like only if my boss comes in or for any emails you send. You can call me Y/N because that’s like normal. I got my doctorate in forensic anthropology a year ago and I’ve been teaching since I started grad school three years ago. You’re in safe hands, I promise.”

He almost kicks himself. You’re the professor. How many times had he been nearly kicked out of a classroom when he was in grad school for saying he was the professor? How many times had he been 18 and trying to get an ounce of respect for himself? 

You continue, waving your hands about like you could pull your ideas back down to earth. “Um—a fun fact about me is that I am not welcome in certain parts of the world for ‘violating’ what are called exhumation laws, which is silly in my opinion. I had the legal right to carry that head on the plane and—and I hope you did the reading because there’s a first day pop quiz.”

The entire class lets out one simultaneous frustrated whine that alights something almost wicked in your eyes. You wave over two students from the other end of the front row and they begin passing out test papers as you explain. 

“You’ll have a total of fifteen minutes to answer ten questions. We’ll start on my mark. If you have any trouble, give me a shout and I’ll help you out. After this, we’ll go over the syllabus and if you’re lucky, leave early.”

Spencer’s passed a test and immediately notices there’s no place for a name. Just a bolded “Student #21” at the top. Another girl raises the question and you snicker. “I like puzzles,” is the only answer you give before the time starts. 

Question four: what are the top three songs you’ve been listening to? Please list.

Question six: why are you taking this class?

A: This is a requirement

B: I heard it was easy

C: I heard the professor was hot

D: I really enjoy anthropology! (liar)

Question nine: Creationism or Evolution?

Question ten: Quickly. If you were going to have dinner, would it be with Bill or Hillary Clinton?

Spencer can’t hide the grin he’s got the entire test. It’s all ridiculous get-to-know-you questions. He can tell what merit you’re getting out of them. There’s one judging study habits, one judging religion, feminism, politics—you’ve created her own little innocuous questionnaire. Spencer was sure the students would just think you were strange, but he saw the cleverness. 

Spencer also notices that once you notice him, you don’t stop noticing him. He wonders what you see. You’re so obviously profiling him that it hurts. Do you see the FBI agent? The scholar? The doctor? The drug addict? The man in a boy’s skin?

Your timer beeps and you shout for pencils down. Your makeshift TAs are dispatched to collect the papers and you make the stacks perfect when they make it to the desk. You move to the whiteboard, a set of papers clutched in your hand, and lean against it to address the class. 

“Test go alright?” your grin is contagious and Spencer can’t help but mirror it. You glance at Spencer, turns back to the class, and tuck your hair behind your ear. You let the class chatter on for a moment, setting the papers down on the table, and readjust the undone cuffs of your white button down. He never thought that a sweater vest and jeans could look so hot. 

You smirk and check your watch one more time. “Let’s talk about tests because I know you all have questions. Everything on the test is either written on the board, on the notes, or in the study guide—if you fail after that, come to office hours. I’ve got Advil for the hangovers.”

#

Thankfully, Joesph is one of those students who has to speak to every single one of his professors. Spencer waits patiently behind the kid, trying to keep the smell from the lack of deodorant just out of range. 

He keeps a hard gaze on all of the students moving in and out of the auditorium. There’s nothing to see, just a lot of students with a lot of normal college apathy. No anger, no serial killer, no one to tackle. 

“Sometimes the BO is worse than a corpse’s expulsion of gas,” you joke from your place atop the desk. Spencer looks up, and furrows his eyebrows as his brain processes. Your face falls for a split second, but your curiosity replaces it just as quickly. Joesph’s jaw hits the floor, stumbling for some way to explain himself or maybe some half decent way to insult the pretty professor. 

Spencer laughs, probably a little more than he should have, considering he wasn’t supposed to out himself as an FBI agent. You tuck your hair behind your ear again and, for someone younger than 25, you are surprisingly wide eyed with perception and curiosity. 

“Do you like puzzles, Doctor—“

“Reid,” he supplies, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Spencer.”

You raise an eyebrow, chewing on your bottom lip in contemplation. You turn your focus back to Joesph—a boy worse at talking to those scoring higher than an 8 than Spencer was at the same age. “So, Joesph, why does the good doctor need to be within tackling distance of you?”

Joesph flounders, turns to hide his blush, and yelps like God himself has come down to kick him in the ass. Spencer takes one good look at the 18 year old girl charging towards a pimple of a boy and he launches before he can give much consideration to how much its going to hurt. 

But between the noticing and the launching, he makes a list: she’s got so much black eyeliner that Emily’s high school yearbook photos would be jealous; she’s about to inflict about a 9 on the pain scale if she’s left to her plan; there’s obviously no plan other to scratch Joesph’s eyes out; her nails are the size of tiger claws and Spencer desperately wishes he had a better pain tolerance; there’s no weapon. 

The tackle takes seconds. It’s a practised movement. Roll. Knee. Handcuffs. The girl is screaming and crying and kicking and biting. His arm’s on fire and she’s struggling enough that it’s taking more than ten seconds to get the handcuffs on. 

It’s calculated as he presses his knee harder into her back. She yelps and stills long enough that Spencer closes the handcuffs on her tiny, sliced up wrists. The cutting explains some things…

“Hence the tackling distance,” You sum up, bending down just slightly to look the killer in the face. Your nose wrinkles. “You had very distinct ideas on the cultural value of suicide.”

Spencer shakes his head, hauls the girl to her feet, and beckons for Joesph to follow. The entire world falls out of view as he manhandles the girl into an easy walk. The students step to the side to gawk, and he’s thankful for the wide berth. If someone got hurt, the paperwork alone—

“It was nice meeting you, Dr. Reid!” you call and he glances back over his shoulder. You’re waving around the stack of papers in your arms, utterly ridiculous, terribly adorable. He hopes his smile is more suave than love sick, but the fleeting flirtation is especially over when Miss Unchecked Rage kicks out as Joesph comes into her line of sight. 

Spencer throws his whole weight into keeping her down. There’s no room to fall in love after a day. Especially with someone on a college campus halfway across the country from him. There’s even less room to manoeuvre Miss Eyeliner even without Joesph waddling into her eye line every few seconds. Seriously, he thinks, how hard is it to keep behind me?

[hockey-prose]

Another Important Question

Summary: Bitty and Jack are already married, but there’s one more life changing decision they have to make. (Cross posted to AO3.)

Family skate was something that Bitty was never going to get used to. The anxiety of a freshly baked pie not being eaten was always something to be afraid of.

Bitty stood in front of the full length mirror in the hallway, fussing with his hair. There was just one strand out of place.

“Bits, you ready to go?”

Jack rounded the corner, phone in hand. Naturally, he looked absolutely gorgeous. Bitty frowned and attempted to ruffle his husband’s hair, earning a laugh from him.

His husband...

Everyone on the Falcs was relentless when chirping Jack every time he called Bitty his husband. There was nothing inherently romantic or gushy about the word, but it was the way Jack said it. The baby blue eyed man would soften completely, almost as if his bones had turned to jelly. Not to mention that he had grown handsy since they tied the knot.

“What are you doing, bud?”

“You look too perfect, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack leaned down and kissed Bitty gently on the forehead.

“So do you. But you keep forgetting that it’s Mr. Bittle now.”

Bitty flushed. How could he ever forget that?

“But are you ready, Bits?”

Bitty tsked, rearranging his pies in the carrier. It had been a special prize for the release of his cookbook, the first 100 people to buy it would also receive one.

“Yes, honey. Let’s go.”

He could fuss with his hair in the car all he liked.

******

Bitty always seemed to forget how much he liked kids. Sure, it was always a thought in his mind, but he wasn’t around them all the time. So being with Marty’s little boy and Thirdy’s daughter, well, his heart was melting.

Occasionally Bitty would look over to see Jack talking to Marty and Thirdy, his expression akin to his proposal face. Serious, but calm and focused. He wondered what they could be talking about.

When Bitty went to go check on the food, he ran into Alexei and his new girlfriend. She was a plump redhead that could talk circles even around Bitty himself. The three struck up a hearty conversation about everything from hockey to pie. The conversation only halted when Jack arrived on the scene.

Jack gave his greetings to the two of them before pulling Bitty away. The two made their way back to the ice.

“What is this about, honey? Not that I don’t love your company, but Katie and I were just about to exchange numbers.”

“I’m sure I can get it from Tater for you. But I had to work up the nerve all day, and now that I have the confidence, I need to do it now.”

Bitty was, of course, very confused at this.

“Are the Falcs switching you?”

“What? Oh! No, God, Bits. No.”

Jack readied himself to lift Bitty into the air just like they’d practiced before. A small smattering of applause was rewarded to them.

“What’s going on, honey?”

Bitty slid to a stop directly on center ice.

******

Marty and Thirdy watched the scene unfold at center ice. Jack was holding Eric by the elbows, looking so damn soft.

“That definitely is fine,” Tater said from behind them.

“Ah, Tater, let him have this one time. He’s asking Eric an important question.”

“They already married, yeah? What more could Zimmboni ask?”

A sharp yell from the ice made all of them look at the pair again. Eric jumped almost impossibly into the air, throwing his arms around Jack’s neck. (That was a fine.) The two fell harshly onto the ice, Eric in Jack’s lap. (Double fine.) Eric looked up to Jack, and gave him a kiss. (Triple fine.)

“Looks like Eric said yes,” Thirdy said, a healthy amount of pride in his voice.

“Sure seems that way,” Marty responded.

******

Bitty could not keep quiet on the ride home. The pies had been finished, the goodbyes said, and the next event was planned. But there was only one thing truly on his mind.

“So, are we thinking a boy or a girl. Where are we putting the nursery? Oh, Jack! We’ll probably have to move into a bigger apartment, huh? Oh this is all just so-“

“Bits, please,” Jack said with a chuckle, lifting his husband’s to press a kiss on the back of it. “We have a lot of time to think about all that. Let’s just start telling people first.”

“Oh, Lord, honey. As soon as we tell my mother, she’s going to ask the exact same questions. You know better.”

Jack laughed again, pulling into the parking garage of their apartment.

“You’re right. But we can worry about that later. Now, let’s get home.”

The softness in Jack’s eyes couldn’t be denied. Bitty was so high on happiness that he completely forgot about the pie tins in the back seat. At least until tomorrow morning.

[let-it-raines]

Rising from the Ashes (21/21)

When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be.

And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones.

As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.

Rating: Mature

A/N: So this long, angsty, sometimes happy story has come to an end, and I have to thank all of you for reading with me along the way even though some of you swore that you wouldn’t. lol. But you made it, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter to wrap everything up💙

We’ve got one final flashback, and it’s a long time coming!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

Killian dives under the water, tightly shutting his eyes to keep the salt out, before jumping back up to the surface and leaping over to tug on Henry’s legs as he kicks out at him in an attempt to get away. They’ve been lounging around in the ocean for a solid two hours, their skin wrinkled at the fingertips and toes – not that his skin isn’t already a bit wrinkled – and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world as he chases after Henry and continually keeps him from getting too far away. It helps that Henry’s got a small paddle board sans the paddle strapped to his ankle so he can’t move as quickly as he normally would be able to if he were swimming. Then again, the lad is also nearing twelve this summer, and while he’s grown quite a bit recently, he’s still far shorter than Killian is.

He never had a chance.

“Dad,” Henry gasps when Killian grabs onto his ankle and pulls him back to his stomach as small waves tumble over toward them and fade out into whitewater, “that’s not fair.”

“I gave you a head start,” he protests, angling Henry’s board toward the shore since they’re already out further than they should be and need to head back. “Are you getting hungry? I’m absolutely starving.”

“I could be hungry if we’re having grilled cheese.”

“You are just like your mum.”

“They’re good.”

“Not when you use the artificial cheese.”

“That’s the best kind.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m right.”

“You are not.” “Agree to disagree.”

Killian clicks his tongue as he starts guiding them closer in, wrapping his arm over Henry’s back and kicking his legs out as he swims. “You really are just like your mum if you’re saying phrases like that.”

“She works at my school. I can’t get away from her, and now you’re saying I sound like her. I can’t win.”

“Do not say that around her,” he gently warns as they get a little closer to shore so that he can see Emma building a sandcastle with Ada near their umbrella so that she still has her eyes on Nathan as he sleeps in his seat. Seven-month-olds aren’t exactly huge fans of the beach, but when it’s a summer day and no one has work or school, they’re not about to pass any of this up when they now live a few feet away from the ocean.

They moved to Boothbay a little less than two years ago after everything happened. He and Emma hadn’t wanted to live in Portland anymore, couldn’t live in their house, and as much as he hated to leave the place where so many of the great moments of his life happened, he knew that it was the right decision. They went through hell as a family, and even though picking up and moving to a new place is no way to solve issues, it was a start for them. They thought about leaving that summer, but he and Emma both decided that they would let Henry stay in his school for one more year so he didn’t have to deal with anymore upheaval in his life. He was going through a lot without the emotional capabilities to handle it, and they weren’t about to take him away from his friends and his family. But when they’d brought up the idea of moving, even if it is only two hours away, he’d been excited. Killian still thinks that Henry mostly wanted to move because they told him they’d be living in a house on the beach instead of one in a suburb, but honestly, the kid is happy now. That’s all that matters.

His family’s happiness is all that’s ever mattered to him, and even though there are days when he’s pissed at Emma, frustrated with Henry, and struggles dealing with Ada and Nathan, he treasures that happiness more than anything in the world.

No part of him takes any kind of happiness for granted.

Not his own, not his children’s, not his wife’s.

Wife.

The word still almost feels foreign to him despite he and Emma having gotten married two and a half years ago during an absolute torrential downpour in August. For him to have had the ring for nearly an entire year before he got to use it, the engagement and wedding sure as hell did happen quickly.

-/-

-/-

“Babe,” Emma calls.

“Babe.”

“Killian.”

“Killian,” Emma huffs, pressing her hand into his shoulder and pushing him a little on the bed until he opens his eyes, wondering why the hell Emma is jostling him awake when he’s getting to sleep in for once in his life.

“If you’re waking me up for morning sex, I’m going to need a minute or two.”

“Oh my gosh,” she groans, sitting down on the mattress next to him and moving down until her cheek is right next to his, her ass moving the mattress enough to jostle him a little bit more awake so that he twists his head to fully look at her while his hand lazily finds her thigh underneath the cover, squeezing the warm, bare skin a bit before resting it there, “no. I’m not waking you up for sex.”

“Pity.”

“Maybe later if you don’t bother me too much today.”

“Is that a promise?” he smirks, knowing that Emma most likely thinks he looks a little more ragged than handsome this morning.

“It’s a maybe,” she laughs, dipping her head down until he feels her lips against his forehead.

It’s still early, far too early, and if he knows anything about his surroundings today, it’s that the sun hasn’t made its way into the sky, the air outside still shrouded in darkness. And for Emma to be up this early on a Saturday without having been woken up by Henry or Ada, it’s basically a once in a lifetime day.

But she’s happy. He notices that too. Her face is bare of all makeup, freckles smattering across her nose, and he can see the blonde tips of her lashes that are often hidden by mascara. And her hair is a mess, the curls around her face a little more prominent, and her teeth look especially white against the tanned skin this summer has brought her.

They’ve been in a dark place since May, and even though Emma has made an effort to have things go on as normal, they haven’t.

Getting over what Neal did to them is such a slow process, one that he’s sure will manifest itself as different challenges and issues for the rest of their lives, and though it’s been easier for about a month and a half now, he still often can’t fall asleep at night because his mind runs through everything. Mostly he thinks about Emma and Henry, how they’re dealing with it, and that’s exactly what keeps him up.

They’re…he and Emma are good, though. He thinks that they may be better than they’ve ever been. It’s certainly not like it once was when they were dating and thinking about the prospect of having Ada. It’s different, but he thinks that it’s better. There’s more trust between them, more faith too, and after a year of sometimes feeling like they weren’t even playing the same game, he thinks that they’re solidly on the same team.

Co-captains.

He loves her, and he can’t ever imagine anything changing that. And if something tries, he won’t let it.

She’s happy.

He’s happy.

They’re happy in spite of everything, but this morning it’s almost as if there’s a different light around Emma than the one that usually stays with her.

“So tell me, my love,” he sighs, inching his hand a little higher on her thigh to tease her skin while he tilts his head up to look at her, “if not because I am simply so irresistible, why are you waking me up this morning?”

“Ada took her first real steps this morning.”

“What?”

“Ada. She took her first steps.”

“When?” he chuckles, moving up on the bed so that he can look at Emma a little more clearly, his chin resting in the dip between her breasts. “How long have you been awake?”

“At, like, two this morning. Her monitor went off, and I couldn’t get her to stop crying. I guess she was just really hungry since she didn’t really eat dinner last night, so I fed her and then we played for a few minutes, and she took her steps.”

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, throwing the blanket off of him and rising from the bed, tugging up at his pajama pants and adjusting his t-shirt as his heart beats wildly in his chest, excitement heating his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Babe,” Emma laughs, sitting up on the bed and moving the remaining blankets off of herself so he can see the skin of her legs, not that he’s really paying that much attention to them anyways. That’s a once in a lifetime thing. “Killian,” she giggles, probably at the fact that he got out of bed so quickly and is now standing in place with his hands in his hair while Emma sits further up on her knees, “what in the world are you doing?”

“She took her first steps?” he questions, the disbelief still running through him. Ada’s been nearly there for months now, seemingly always staying the cruising stage, and she took her first steps. God, he can’t…his little love continuously reaching new little milestones that are always so miraculous as he watches her develop.

He can’t believe he missed these too.

Emma smiles, and even though he already knew the answer, that’s all of the reassurance that he needed.

He’s obviously not thinking straight, his mind all over the place, but he’s so damn happy that all he can think to do is bend down and wrap his arms around Emma, pulling her up and off the bed so that he legs dangle in the air while she squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck while he gets a better grip holding her under her ass. It’s definitely not the most coordinated thing in the world, but he doesn’t care as Emma’s legs wrap around his waist with her ankles crossing at her back while he slams his lips into hers, capturing her laugh and any other words she had to say as he slowly sways them back and forth in their room, not daring to move with his eyes closed.

He can feel Emma’s smile through the kiss.

“I’m going to tell Ada to walk more often if I get that reaction out of you.”

“A bloody brilliant plan that.”

Emma laughs again, and he nips at her upper lip before pulling back and peppering kisses across her face while pleasurable shivers run down his spine with how she’s playing with his hair at the nape of his neck. She hums then, and when he pulls back, he takes the opportunity to start walking them out of the room.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“My daughter took her first steps, love. I want to see her do it again.”

“She’s asleep.”

He pinches her ass before carefully opening the door. “I know.”

“Killian, I swear, do not wake her up. She’s going to be cranky if you wake her up, and I don’t want to deal with that.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Says the woman who woke me up to tell me this.”

“It’s big news, but I just got her back down.”

“Aye.” He nods, the reality of what she’s saying sinking in as he thinks of what their day will be like if they get Ada to be all riled up when she needs sleep. “You’re right. I’m just…I got a little overexcited there.”

“Well, you do tend to have the opposite thing happen to you when you’re woken up.”

He chuckles and turns them around in the hallway, his arms aching the slightest bit from having held Emma for so long. She’s a slight little thing, but even Ada gets too heavy to carry after he’s held her for too long. When he makes it back to the bedroom, he flips the switch to turn the light on their ceiling fan on, casting the room in a bright white light, before gently placing Emma down onto the bed, letting her fall back on her elbows with her hair falling down her back while she smiles up at him.

Somehow, he can feel the smile in his own cheeks.

And it all hits him suddenly. His daughter, the one who was once no more than seven pounds and could do little more than cry, is walking on her own, even if it’s only a step or two. His son is turning nine next month. He’s been with Emma for five years, and he turned thirty eight at the end of May.

Life is moving on.

For a long while, it stood still, the insanity swirling around them and causing a thick haze that no one could see through, but they made their way through it eventually even if some of the haze still surrounds them. But they keep walking, keep moving forward, and suddenly he doesn’t want to wait another moment to find the perfect moment when there has never been a more perfect moment than right now.

“Darling, wait right there.”

He doesn’t let her respond before he’s quickly moving the few steps to the closet and turning to grab the box out of his uniform pocket, the blue velvet smooth under his fingertips as a smile forms on his face, all of the nerves he thought he would feel nowhere to be seen as he pops the box open and removed the ring, holding it in the palm of his hand. He’s got no clue what he’s going to say, how he’s going to ask, so when he gets back into the bedroom to see Emma still in the same place with her brows raised high on her forehead, he simply steps in front of her and gets down on one knee on the hardwood floor.

If Emma’s brows could get any higher, they would, both of them practically in her hairline, but as quickly as they rise, they also lower to their normal spot all the while the corners of her lips curve into a smile that makes the green of her eyes nearly disappear.

But just nearly.

“Yes,” she blurts out, the word loud and yet somehow a quiet whisper in the room.

He chuckles, wanting to close his eyes with his laughter but not wanting to look away. “Emma, you have to let a man ask.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m – ”

“I know, love. I know.” She’s getting ahead of herself, just like he did this morning, and that seems to be a habit of theirs. He doesn’t mind. “Emma, my love, the first time I saw you in that damned bar and made you laugh, I had absolutely no idea that we were going to go through so much together, that we were going to have this life and our kids and each other, that you were going to give me the greatest parts of my life, that you  would be the greatest part of my life. I love you more than anything, and while I can’t guarantee anything else, I can guarantee that I will always, always be by your side. So what do you say? Will you marry me?”

“Of course, yes. Killian,” she sighs leaning forward and grabbing his face until her lips are on his, an insistent press that is somehow the lightest touch he has ever felt. He’s kissed Emma more times than he can count, had her lips softly gliding over his every day for years now, but right now he can barely contain himself over how much everything is different and yet very much the same. “I will marry you, and I will be right there by your side annoying you every step of the way.”

A laugh escapes him, and he presses forward to brush his lips over the corner of hers, unable to keep himself from covering every inch of her warm skin with his lips as all of the turmoil and heartache disappears and he can only feel joy that rivals the day Ada was born or the day that Henry called him his dad for the first time.

Or maybe every other moment that he’s had with Emma.

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing her forehead into his while her hands reach up to clutch his face.

“I love you,” he echoes, wishing he had the words to express his love more than those three words do. He reaches up to grab her left hand from his face, pulling it down to rest between them as he quickly slides the ring onto her finger, marveling at the fact that it’s finally in the place that it should be. “You and the kids are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“I mean, I already knew that.”

“Stop,” Emma laughs, falling back against the bed while he gets up from the ground to place his hands on either side of her head, dipping his head down to kiss her neck, spending a bit of time there while Emma’s laughs turn into gasps. He rather likes that. “Oh, I think I changed my mind about the morning sex.”

“Proposing did it for you then?”

“I mean, I was already considering it, but I do think that encouraged me the smallest bit.”

“Well, I will take what I can get.”

“You’ve always been a man of standards.”

He winks. “I try.”

Later, when they’re sated and their hair is a little messier than before, his skin still tingling from the way Emma felt wrapped around him, he finds the strength to rise from the bed when he hears Henry walk past their bedroom, obviously having woken up and probably wanting breakfast.

“I can go feed Henry,” Emma mumbles, rising from the bed and pulling on a t-shirt to cover her breasts while she quickly combs her hair back into a bun, which really doesn’t do anything to hide the fact that they were just intimate, but it’s not as if Henry will know, especially not with a new ring on her finger he’s sure she’ll be talking about. “If memory serves, there’s a little girl who you were very excited to see much earlier this morning.”

“I can make breakfast, love.”

“No,” Emma insists, pressing up on her toes to brush her lips over his cheek once, twice, three times, “I will. I think today deserves celebrating with something good and unhealthy that you would never let us have.”

“I think I could make an exception today.”

“Still. I can do it.”

He nods in agreements, and when she turns around to walk away, he quickly reaches down to grab her ass, making her giggle as she turns around to briefly look at him before walking out of the room with the slightest shake of her head.

That woman is going to be his wife.

He’s the luckiest man.

After getting dressed back in his pajamas, he quietly makes his way down the hallways and into the nursery, finding Ada standing against the railing with her brown hair standing up in so many different ways that he knows she got it from him and the weird cowlicks that he has.

“Dada,” she squeals, her face lighting up in a way that will never fail to amaze him that someone so little loves him so much.

“Good morning, sweetheart. You been keeping your mummy up at weird times?”

“No,” she giggles, her favorite word as of late. He picks her up out of the crib and kisses her cheeks, making her giggle more. “No, no, no.”

“Oh come on, I think you did. And you walked too? It’s been a very big morning in this house.”

“No.”

“But it is,” he insists, standing her up on the changing table. “Your mummy told me she wants to marry me, my love bug.”

-/-

-/-

They’d gotten engaged after far too long of a time, and Emma told him that she didn’t want to wait anymore, that there was no point in delaying something that they both wanted to do. So with the help of Mary Margaret, planner extraordinaire, they planned a small wedding to happen in the backyard of Ruth’s house before Henry went back to school and Emma went back to work. Except it rained so much that everything happened in the living room, decorations haphazardly placed in the spots where the furniture had been carried to other rooms. It was a mess, but it was as close to perfect as he ever could have imagined. Liam, Belle, and Caleb decided to fly in from England, Belle absolutely insistent that she would not miss the wedding, and he finally got to meet his nephew who is now his favorite little man to get to video chat at least twice a week. David applied for a license online to marry them, and even though Emma laughed for a solid ten minutes at the image of David marrying them, she did come around to the idea.

He asked Henry to be his best man, told him it was one of the most important jobs for him to have after being a good big brother, and they let Ada be their flower girl even if it was an absolute disaster since she nearly fell every other step. He’d had to walk toward her and lean down in front of her at the end of their makeshift aisle and clap to her to continue her walking. She’d just taken those infamous first steps four weeks prior, and it was definitely still a work in progress. Emma had been standing at the back of the room in her dress, a small lacy thing that hugged her chest and flowed from her hips, and she hadn’t been able to help herself from quickly walking toward him and helping to encourage Ada to walk until she got to the end of the aisle with a small basket full of the flower petals they completely expected her to drop the moment she was handed it.

The entire thing was imperfect, crazy, and yet it was the most intimate moment of his life as he got to officially commit himself to Emma for the rest of his days.

He loves her with every beat of his heart, and while it’s never been easy, even in the days of flirting and teasing, they have fought for the love that they share because they both know it’s been worth it. He’ll never be one to claim that falling in love and getting married solves problems and brings utter happiness because that’s simply not true. Fights and petty arguments happen, disagreements over how to raise children occur, and heated discussions over what to have for dinner happen frequently. But that’s what happens when you share your life with someone else.

The disagreements, though, are always smaller than the love and happiness, and he’s thankful that he’s got this woman by his side who is his partner in all things.

And they’ve got three kids who they love more than anything.

Killian officially adopted Henry after they got married, and even though it required legally working with Neal, it was still one of the best decisions he’s ever made. The fact that Henry asked for it makes it all the sweeter. The kid has always been his son, and adoption or not, that was never going to change. Nathan arrived back in October two weeks before Emma’s birthday, and while they had planned him, it was still somehow a shock to have another little one in his arms.

(Changing the little lad’s diaper was a bit of a shock too since he was used to Ada and wasn’t around for changing a lot of Henry’s diapers.)

But a good shock.

And his little love Ada isn’t quite as little anymore, even if she’s a bit on the small side and takes after her mother in nearly every way but her hair and the indent of her chin, as she’s now four and more full of life than he ever thought possible. She talks, just all of the time, and he’s not sure if he can quite keep up with her. When he can’t, she makes sure to tell him, placing her hands on her hips and staring at him with furrowed brows until he catches up with whatever creation she’s making or story she’s telling.

He’s got good kids.

And a beautiful wife who works as a high school vice principal now while he spends his days managing the harbor for the town since they have such traffic for their boat tours and shipping. It doesn’t pay as much as his last job, but the cost of living here is cheaper. Mostly, though, he’s happy in his job, and it doesn’t make him constantly feel like he’s at war both physically and with himself.

Happy.

That’s the word he keeps coming back to.

For so long, their word was normalcy. All they wanted was for everything to go back to normal. After everything, they’re happy. They still have their difficult days, all of them still in therapy and still struggling some days, but they’re happy.

“Daddy,” Ada yells from the shore, getting up and nearly kicking over the tower on her sandcastle much to Emma’s dismay, “I want to go surfing too.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to surf, love bug,” he sighs, unstrapping Henry’s ankle wrap so that he can stand up on his own. “We only have this paddleboard.”

“Mommy said it was a surfboard.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders and raises her hands in the air while her lips press into her skin and her brows raise. “That’s my bad. I forgot the name for it. I was stuck somewhere between boogie board and surf board, so I feel like I was close enough.”

“Not really,” Henry adds in.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m never right. I get it.”

“Daddy,” Ada whines again as she runs up to him and wraps her arms around his calf, weighing him down so that he has to kick up to walk, “please. I want to.”

He glances over to Emma to see what she has to say since they really need to get back up to the house, and when she nods her head, he reaches down and picks Ada up to rest on his hip as he grabs Henry’s paddleboard, which they have been decidedly not using the paddle for. Henry just got the thing last week, and they’re still working on coordination.

“Five minutes,” he tells Ada, pulling at her braided pigtails while wading out until he’s waist deep in the water.

“That’s not very long.”

“Well, we’ve got to get inside to get food in your tummy.”

“I like food.”

“You and me both.”

He steadies the board on the nearly still water before sitting Ada down on it. He already knows that she’s going to topple over into the ocean, but her lips are pursed in that way that she gets from Emma that means she’s determined to do something.

“Alright, love,” he tells her as he stands her up, one hand wrapped around her stomach while the other stays steady on the board, “you have to stay still and suck in your tummy like you do on the balance beam at gymnastics, yeah?”

“I know.” “Oh, well if you know then.”

“I do. You have a lot of hair on your tummy, Daddy.”

“Your mummy likes that hair.” “That’s weird.”

“No, it’s not. I like the hair on you head.”

Ada sighs while he gently moves her around as he keeps her wobbly legs from falling as much as he can. She’s such a little spitfire, and that’s not at all what he was expecting for how calm of a baby she was.

It’s payback for something. It has to be.

“But it’s on my head and not on my tummy. Mommy doesn’t have hair on her tummy. You’re like a bear.”

He laughs underneath his breath before he lets go of the board to run his fingers over Ada’s stomach, making her giggle and lose her footing until she falls onto the board, the air escaping her for a moment as she lands on her bottom. He stands her up once more, but she never quite gets over her giggling fit, so he makes the executive decision that their time is up and they can go inside. Grabbing Ada, her props her up on his shoulders and grabs the board so they can walk back up onto the sand where Emma and Henry are already packing up their things.

“Nathanial, my man, why are you not helping out?” “Babe,” Emma groans, throwing her head back as she puts some of Nathan’s toys in his bag, “his name is not Nathanial. It’s Nathan, and we call him Nate. I don’t know why you insist on calling him Nathanial like he’s a little old man from two centuries ago.”

He plops Ada down on the ground with the paddleboard. “Because it bothers you, my darling wife,” he sighs, dipping his head enough so that he can slide his lips over hers, the taste of salt water and a little bit of sunscreen consuming him. “And I believe I promised to bother you every single day in my vows.”

“That is not at all what happened.”

“It’s not,” Henry adds in, walking up to her with his float wrapped around his waist and his hair lying flat on his head. “You guys said the normal vows or whatever because I remember you talked about it forever.”

“Hey now, lad, you were very excited for your mum and I get to married. You can’t act like you weren’t.”

“Yeah, but I was nine, and I didn’t realize how gross you two were then.”

Emma looks at him, and he shrugs, his brows waggling across his forehead. Such a pre-teen. “Ada bug, why don’t you go give your big brother a kiss?”

“Please no,” Henry whines, already closing his eyes while Ada nods her head and practically pounces on Henry, scrambling up into his arms until she’s placing a smattering of wet, sloppy kisses all over Henry’s face. He always acts like he hates it, but he doesn’t. Even when he’s moody because his siblings are so much younger than him and he has to watch children’s shows, he would do absolutely anything for his younger siblings.

He’s a good kid. The best kid who he absolutely loves with his entire heart.

“Henry,” Ada giggles, “stop tickling me.”

“Stop kissing me.”

“Fine,” Ada huffs until Killian is grabbing her out of Henry’s arms and resting her on his hip as both Emma and Nate laugh behind them. “Daddy, can we go get food now?”

“Absolutely, my love. You have to go pack up your things, though, okay? Pick up all of the toys.”

It takes far longer to clean up all of their things than it should, but that always seems to happen whenever they let the kids help with things like that. It’s so much easier to do things themselves, but Henry and Ada have to know to clean up their own things. And they’re not on a timeline today anyways, so it’s fine as they take their time getting everything together and walking back up to the house. As always, getting Ada showered in their outdoor shower is a struggle with her squirming away from the cold water, but he’s got to get the sand off of her before she tracks it through the house.

That happened once, and he swears the rug in the living room has never quite been the same.

“Mom, can we have grilled cheese for lunch?” Henry asks after they’ve all showered and changed into dry clothes. Emma’s simply in her pajamas, one of his t-shirts and a pair of loose shorts, and he can see her hair already curling as it dries down her back. It’s gotten curlier since they moved here, and he quite likes the way it snaps back into place after he runs his fingers through it. “I really want grilled cheese.”

“Sure. Your dad will make it because I have to feed Nate.”

“No,” Henry and Ada yell at once, and he can’t help the little sting of insult that rushes through him. “He makes it with the weird cheeses,” Henry finishes, repeating their conversation from earlier.

“I will only make it with the cheese you guys like,” he promises with a roll of his eyes as he picks Nate up from his playmat and hands him over to Emma, “but you guys also have to eat some kind of vegetable.”

“I like carrots.”

“Okay, we’ll just go with the orange foods today then.”

He turns some music on his phone, one of his playlists that he knows doesn’t have cursing in it, and plays it over a little speaker they keep in the kitchen while both Ada and Henry sit at the island scrolling through an iPad as they play whatever game they’ve agreed on lately. Emma is sitting with Nate in the living room, and when he turns around, he can easily see her. That’s one of his favorite things about this house, the openness of it all. Their entire downstairs is basically one large room with a bathroom hidden in the back, and it makes everything seem much larger despite this house being smaller than their last one. Most of their old furniture remains, the same gray couch and loveseat with the brightly colored armchair all sitting in the living room with a white and gray striped rug (the one Ada stained) underneath it. The television rests above a white brick fireplace, and it’s all backed up to a few floor-to-ceiling windows that give a view of the ocean. There are curtains that they close at night or when they want privacy, but rarely does he want to not have the view of the water.

A part of him would like to say the house is clean, but Nathan’s toys are scattered everywhere no matter how often they’re put away in their bins, Ada’s joining them, and even though Henry mostly keeps his things in his room, occasionally some of his belongings will make their way downstairs. It’s definitely a home that’s lived in, and he can get over his far too rigid ways for that.

There are too many awful, difficult things in the world for him to be constantly worrying about everything being clean all the time even if cleanliness is something he’s trying to instill in his children.

It’s a balancing act.

He finishes cooking for everyone, cutting up the sandwiches in everyone’s preferred ways and piling the plates with vegetables before sliding over the plates and cups of water to Ada and Henry, hoping that Ada won’t manage to spill her water. After they’re fed, he takes Emma’s plate over to her and places it on the end table so that she can eat too. He’ll fix himself something later once the smell of processed cheese is out of the air.

Nathan starts whining, the beginnings of a cry that he recognizes and usually dreads.

“Oh no, kid,” Emma sighs when he unlatches and his wails get a little louder. She gets up from the chair, pulling her t-shirt down in the process, and starts walking him around. “Don’t cry. We’re happy, aren’t we? We just ate, Nate. Ooh that rhymes, see? You should like rhyming. You probably don’t get it, but that fine.”

His wails calm down to quiet sniffles as Emma sways him back and forth to the sound of the music, dancing with their son until he quiets down. He’s a good baby, a little fussier than Ada was, but he’s generally pretty happy. It helps that this is their first child where nothing crazy has happened in the months after their birth, so they’re calmer, their stress levels much lower. They’ve got a pretty relaxed life, and that’s exactly what he wants.

“You used to be louder than that,” he overhears Henry tell Ada from behind him.

“I was not,” she protests.

Killian laughs to himself before rising from the couch and moving to stand in front of Emma, motioning for her to hand him Nate. She does, passing him off with a smile before she settles down in the armchair, curling her legs up underneath her as she takes a bite out of her sandwich.

“Now, Nate,” he says, swaying his hips from side to side and poking his son’s nose, “there is a secret to dancing. Sometimes you can be silly and move your arms and your bottom however you want, but then other times there’s a specific flow of how to dance. Your mum is a natural at dancing, but I believe that’s because she picked a partner who knew what he was doing.”

“You’re full of yourself.”

“No, no, I am not.” Nate babbles at him before reaching up to grab at his face, his little smile so happy when he was red faced moments ago. “You see, I used to have to go to military balls, my boy, and one time I had the pleasure of dancing with your mother. She nearly stepped on my toes, but I made sure that she didn’t. It was all very romantic.”

“We weren’t even dating at the time.”

He winks at Emma. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t think it was romantic.”

He keeps moving around with Nate while Emma eats, trying to keep him occupied. He’s attached to Emma, is always wanting to be with her, so it’s always a bit of a bonus for Nathan to be so happy when Killian’s playing with him and Emma’s just a few feet away. Ada joins in, deciding she wants to dance too, and while Henry doesn’t really have any interest, he settles down on the couch until Emma pulls him up and forces him to join her. He’s reluctant about it, but he does it.

Eventually they all get tired out, so Emma closes the curtains and turns on a movie, letting Nathan sleep on her chest and Ada nap at her side while he and Henry debate if Spiderman or Batman would be better at saving the town if they were to ever come under any danger. Henry has had to grow up quickly because of the circumstances of his life, but it’s comforting for him to get to have these little conversations about something as inconsequential as superheroes.

(Spiderman would definitely be better.)

The rest of their day is spent lazily, only getting up to eat or use the restroom, and by the time night falls, they’ve got Ada and Nathan sleeping and Henry settled in his room reading one of his books with the promise to turn off the lights before ten. He knows it won’t happen, but he can hope.

Walking through their bedroom, he makes his way to the bathroom where Emma is standing in front of the mirror spraying something in her hair before she attempts to brush out the tangled curls. He knows it’s not fun because he did the same for Ada after taking her braids out, and it was a mess. When she curses under her breath at a knot, he steps forward until he’s swaying into her space and pressing their bodies together while his hands press up under her shirt to splay over her stomach, her skin warm from the sun she got this morning.

“Hi,” he whispers before dragging his lips across her neck, tasting the salt that still remains on her skin as she leans back into him. There will never be a more beautiful, loving woman, and he’s grateful that she’s his every day.

“Hi.”

“The kids are asleep.”

“That tends to happen at night.”

He hums in agreement before pressing another kiss to her neck as his hands wander up her stomach to her breasts, running his fingers over her nipples while Emma arches her back into him. “You know what else tends to happen at night?”

“Late night talk shows.”

“Tease,” he laughs, stopping his ministrations and resting his chin on her shoulder so that he can look at the two of them in the mirror. His eyes are immediately drawn to the little bit of gray peppering in his hair, just at the temple, and as much as Emma tells him that he’s beginning to be her silver fox, he’s not overly fond of this proof of aging, especially when his wife and his children are still so young and vibrant. “Today was a good day.”

“It was,” Emma agrees, reaching her hand up to scratch at the back of his head that sends shivers down his spine. “I wish you had off of work more often during the summers so we could have days like this.”

“It’s my busy season.”

“I know, I know. I like eating too much for us not to have jobs.”

“And the roof over our head.”

“Yeah, that too,” she chuckles before she manages to grab the corner of his lips with hers. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll come to bed, okay?”

“I like that plan.”

He lets Emma brush through her hair and wash her face while he brushes his teeth and washes his own face, slipping out of his sweats so that he’s only wearing his boxers before leaving the bathroom and moving to settle down under the plush white comforter in their bedroom. It’s still early enough for them not to be in bed, and he knows that he has laundry to do, but he’ll let that slide until tomorrow. It takes him a few minutes to find something on television to watch, settling on reruns of Seinfeld, and Emma joins him, laying her head against his chest and wrapping her arms around his stomach while he plays with her untangled hair as they sit in silence for a few minutes, the lights on the screen flickering in the dim lights of the room.

“We need to get Henry packed for his camp tomorrow. And Ada has a gymnastics class at the same time that I need to be dropping Henry off.”

“I can take Ada. I don’t have to be at work until ten on Monday.”

“That works for me, but don’t forget her - ”

“Scrunchie. Aye, I know, love,” he promises, dipping his head down to kiss the top of Emma’s hair. “I know how she absolutely has to have her hair done. She’s a particular lass.”

“I wonder where she gets that from.”

“Obviously not me.”

Emma pats his stomach and turns her head to kiss his chest. “Sure, babe. You’re never particular about anything.”

“Never.”

His hand travels down her back to run over her ass, lightly teasing the firm skin before he drags his fingers back up, scratching at her skin. He doesn’t have any devious intent, simply moving his hand up and down Emma’s body because it’s relaxing to her in the times when he’s not riling her up. And if it happens to bring a little energy back to them as they’re half asleep.

“You know, Mrs. Jones, I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s never a good thing.”

“It is at least one out of every ten times.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Anyways,” he laughs, cupping her chin and tilting her head up so that his thumb rubs over the indent in her chin and he can look into her eyes, “I was thinking that it’s such a shame that I never did get to take you as my date to one of the military balls we attended. We could have gotten dressed up, danced all night until you had me carrying your shoes because your feet hurt. You deserve nights like that.”

“Killian, we got married in my mom’s living room when we could have had a big party wearing nice clothes where we danced all night and got drunk off our asses. I don’t...it would have been great to get to go to those balls together, to have the fancy nights out, but I don’t need any of that. It’s so much better for you and me to do stupid dances in the living room with our kids. I couldn’t ask for more because I love you, and I’m happy.”

He dips his head to slide his lips over hers, quick and warm and insistent, but he likes it most of all because he can feel her smile mixed in with his.

“My love, your happiness is all I desire.”

“Same.”

“That’s not quite as eloquent.”

“Yeah, well, eloquence was never in the deal when you signed up for this package.”

He smiles at her, pressing forward to kiss her one more time as their noses brush together. “I’m more than good with that.”

[mariequitecontrarie]

One Thousand Blessings: A Macelle Fic

Summary: Catching a thief red-handed two days before Christmas is the last thing Joseph MacAvoy expects headed into the holidays with his wife, Belle, especially when the robber in question turns out to be a little boy with blue eyes and tousled blonde curls he can’t seem to forget. Meanwhile, seven-year-old orphan Nicholas Parrish is hanging onto the dregs of hope for a Merry Christmas, and Belle has a bright idea—and a Christmas secret—of her own. Rating: T, for now A/N:  Sequel to Morning Glory, my @maydaymenagerie. Maybe you’re thinking “Really, Marie, a Christmas story in January?” I’ve been planning this for a while, but with the holidays and the stomach flu running rampant at our house…yeah. This is Part 1. I think there will be 4 Parts.

Read on AO3

DECEMBER 23rd: STORYBROOKE SODA AND SUNDRIES The slap of Joseph’s hand against the front door is sharp and cold.

His palm stings with the contact, clammy skin sticking to the icy surface and his breath fogs the glass, obstructing his view of snow-covered Main Street despite the morning sunshine. His other hand shoots out to wrap his knuckles around the door handle, locking his arms around a four-foot boy with a suspicious lump in his coat.

Unless the kid ducks back into the store and heads into the back where Clark, the pharmacist, is standing guard by the employee door, there’s no way out.

Joseph looks down, pinning the back of a curly blonde head with a solemn stare. “What are you doing, son?”

“Uh, nothin.” For a moment, the boy’s shoulders slump. Then he turns his head, smoky blue eyes flashing with defiance, his ragged breath fogging the glass alongside Joseph’s.  

Joseph frowns, his fingers cupping a small elbow in a coat too thin and threadbare for a Storybrooke winter. He slides his hand upward, gripping a surprisingly meaty bicep for one so young, and gently takes hold of his shoulders to steer him back toward the inside of the store. There is resistance—sneakered feet squeak against the tile floor, but after a moment the boy relents and turns around.  

“What?” the kid asks, playing dumb. His eyes flicker briefly over Joseph’s before hitting the floor.

Joseph tilts the boy’s chin up to examines his heart-shaped face—full cheeks, a jaunty chin, and a smattering of freckles. He’s a sturdy little thing, looks to be around six or seven. Not that he would really know.

It’s a rare occurrence to find a thief in a small, affluent town like Storybrooke. Back home in the squalid city of Middlesbrough, north England, where he’d been raised and trained in the priesthood, catching a kid pilfering cigarettes or booze to use or sell off would have been typical.

But here in Storybrooke, most family units were intact, small business thrived, and people had the means to care for their own and share with others. Even the scant handful of children who live at the convent with the sisters have full bellies and enough supervision to keep them from running through the streets and making trouble.

As for Joseph, departing England also meant abandoning his vocation and leaving a life of loneliness behind. Last year, through a series of unbelievable events and thanks to a peculiar angel named Merlin, he’d become the owner of this convenience store where he used to work stocking shelves, and somehow been blessed to marry Belle French, town librarian and love of his life.

Belle. Thoughts of her draw an instant smile to his face and his cheeks heat with pleasure. His wife has such a way with people; she would know exactly what to do with a little boy who was caught stealing. Joseph imagines her now,  crouching down until she was right at his level, eyes sparkling with mirth. She would introduce herself, then lead him away by the hand to read a children’s book featuring the perfect moral at the end of the story. After a scant handful of well-meaning question, the child would fall in love with her natural curiosity and the musical trill of her laugh, and all the details of his life would come tumbling out in a jumble of words and emotions.

At least, that’s how it had been for Joseph.

But Belle isn’t here. The boy is stuck with him—an awkward ex-priest-turned-shopkeeper—and his relative inexperience with children. Since their marriage, he and Belle had talked about the possibility of children in the future, but it was more of a five-year plan, a distant goal relegated to “someday.” For now, his knowledge is limited to the little ones he sees tugging on their parents’ coats in the store, asking for candy at the checkout, or their shy smiles of gratitude and sticky fingers when he serves them a dish of ice cream. There are also the occasional teenagers who sit at the soda fountain counter, sipping milkshakes and chattering with their friends in a language only they understand, iPhones plastered to their faces.

While he’d been a priest, he was usually too drunk to even notice children. Oh, he’d christened a baby now and then, but young ones never darkened the door of his confessional or came to him for advice. And the parish was too small and the congregation too disgusted with their drunken pastor to send altar boys in for training. What words of love or comfort would he have offered, anyway? What life skills could he have taught, other than to demonstrate the quickest way to the bottom of the bottle?

None of that now. The still, small whisper of God fills his mind, delivering the peace he craves. Those days are over, Joseph, and you are a new creation in Me.

Then give me the words now, Lord, he begs silently. I don’t know what to say or do.

He rakes a hand through his hair and refocuses on the boy, who’s now standing with arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing him like he’s grown a third eyeball.

Joseph knows one thing; the boy picked the worst time of day to make his move. It’s December 23rd — just two days until Christmas — and for the first time in several weeks the store is quiet, a mid-morning lull in the bustle of the season. It’s strange, really; an hour ago he’d been selling boxes of candy and small toys faster than Granny’s Diner sold stacks of flapjacks during the weekend breakfast rush. Now the place is eerily quiet, and the silence gives Joseph space to think.

What drove this poor kid to rob his store on a Thursday morning? Is it a childish prank, or does a deeper need lurk beneath the surface?

Sympathy floods him, along with a sense of calm. He may not be great with advice or problem-solving, but the Lord has blessed him with compassion and discernment, as well as a listening ear.

Joseph drops his eyes from the boy’s face, nodding at the large bulge in his threadbare jacket that’s tucked securely beneath his little arms, his left elbow nearly poking through the sleeve of his coat. On the security monitor, he’d watched him tuck several items against his chest before cornering him at the front door. He should have stopped him sooner, he supposes, but he was puzzled by the odd collection of items he’d chosen. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

The boy’s gaze shifts, a well-worn navy and grey running shoe poking at a bit of melting snow on the floor. “We’re …we’re on a field trip.”

“Oh, a field trip, is it?”

“Yep.” The kid nods vigorously.

Joseph smiles and runs his hand over his whiskers, pretending to consider. He knows a whopper when he hears one. He supposes that’s one positive attribute he took away from the priesthood. “Where’s the rest of your class?”

“My class? They’re uh…oh.”

“Oh.” Joseph nods knowingly, then clears his throat. “Stealing is wrong, son. It’s also against the law.”

“I’m not your son.”

The arms crossed over his little chest tighten protectively around his ribcage, his lower lip jutting out in a sour pout. But there is a wistfulness in the words, and Joseph’s heart gives an answering pang.

“True enough,” Joseph answers.              

His chin jerks up. “Are you gonna call the Sheriff now?” He draws out the words, reluctant.

Joseph smooths his hand over his work apron, thinking.

Sheriff Swan is a close personal friend of his wife’s. She could come in and take over, find out what’s going on with this boy. Within ten minutes, Joseph could make a statement, Miss Swan’s patrol car would pull away with the boy inside, and Joseph would return to running his store. When the clock struck five, he would go home to a hot meal, gaze at the glowing light of the Christmas tree, and tuck himself into bed against Belle’s side.  

He shoots a longing look toward the telephone on his desk. But no, calling the police isn’t the right thing to do. It’ll scare the boy away, harden him toward both Joseph and the law—and that’s the last thing he wants. Somehow, he knows God has intended him to help this child, just as surely as he knows his own name. Still, he has to tread carefully, or he will lose the boy’s trust before it’s even been earned.

“That depends, doesn’t it?”

The boy frowns. “On what?”

“Whether you tell me the truth. If you’re honest, you can save us both the trouble of involving Sheriff Swan or your parents.”

The boy opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut. Joseph shifts toward the soda fountain, trusting his young charge to follow. “Come with me.”

“Fine.” He drags his feet and huffs an impatient sigh, as though Joseph is the one who has done something wrong.

Joseph bites back a smile at his perturbed little face, and waves a hand toward a stool. He ducks behind the counter, then chooses a sundae glass and lifts the cover on the ice cream case. “You, ah, you like ice cream?” he asks, pausing with the scoop in his hand. Oh, please let the answer be Yes.

“Yeah,” he answers, but the boy eyes the red vinyl seat a with distrusting glare before giving it a spin. He glances around the store, as if looking for someone. “The old lady who owned this place before was real mean. Heard she used to poison the kids who came in here.”

Stunned by the bitter claim, Joseph looks up from mounding vanilla bean ice cream into a dish. He almost cracks a stupid joke about serving poison-free desserts, but behind the kid’s suspicious tone lives real fear. And he’s not far from the truth. The store’s previous owner and his old boss, Bedelia Bluementhal, ran the store with an iron fist. Later, she’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from drug companies and selling drugs to children throughout New England. Thanks to the Lord (and the angel Merlin), she was spending the rest of her life behind bars for her crimes.

“She’s gone now,” Joseph confirms. He keeps his voice steady yet gentle, drawing the boy’s attention away from worriedly scanning the aisles, and meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to be scared of her anymore. Sit down.”  

“I ain’t scared, Mister,” the boy scoffs.

The tension in his small, hunched shoulders melts like ice cream around the edges of a carton, then he hops onto the stool with an energetic exuberance that only children seem to possess. His eyes remind Joseph of Belle’s favorite blue dinner plates when he sees the sundae, but he doesn’t rush to pick up the spoon. Instead he gives Joseph a long, searching look.

Joseph doesn’t take offense at the way he runs his eyes over his sharp nose and greying, shoulder-length hair, but continues to hold his gaze, letting the boy look his fill. If he were a gambling man, he’d bet his store and all its inventory that in this kid’s experience, nothing is free.

“It’s okay,” Joseph says softly.

The boy nods, almost imperceptibly, and Joseph smothers another smile when he digs into the sundae  with gusto, gulping huge mouthfuls of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and rainbow sprinkles. Melted chocolate dribbles down the side of the glass and puddles on the countertop, and he swipes the goodness up with his fingers and shovels it into his mouth, not missing a drop.

“Good?” Joseph asks as the boy gobbles the ice cream concoction, not really expecting a response. He steps away to shine the chrome fixtures on the fountain, giving him space to enjoy the treat. Instinct tells him the last thing this kid needs is someone watching him eat, like he’s some sort of animal in a cage.

Joseph knows the boy is finished when he hears a soft, contented sigh. He turns back toward the counter. “I’m Joseph. What’s your name?”

The boy scrunches up his face, as if deciding whether to tell. The remnants of the hot fudge sundae are smeared on his chin, his blonde curls adorably tousled. “It’s Nick.”

Joseph can’t contain a delighted laugh. “Nick! Ah, what a grand name. Especially at Christmastime.”

Curiosity leaps into his eyes when Joseph leans closer, and he drops his voice to a just above a whisper as if sharing a secret. Belle says kids love secrets, and he figures it’s worth a shot. “You know, Saint Nicholas is the protector of children. He always gives in secret, alert to the needs of others, and expects nothing in return. That’s a very special name you have.”

“Really?” Nick worries his lower lip. “What’s a-lert?”

“It means he knows what we need even before we think to ask, sometimes before we know ourselves.”

Blue eyes fill with tears, and grubby little balled up fists dash them away in angry swipes.

Joseph drops his eyes to the counter to give the boy privacy, a chance to collect himself. Blindly, he hands him a warm, hot towel scented with lemon, the type fancy restaurants pass out after a meal. Belle’s idea, of course.

Nick mops his face and hands, then slaps the towel back on the counter, now tinged grey and streaked with dirt and chocolate. He sniffles, then picks the towel up again and blows his nose.

When he’s finished, Joseph whisks the soiled towel away and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, keeping his voice low and quiet so as not to attract attention from his staff or other customers, “why don’t you show me what you took?”

Eyes on the floor, Nick unzips his jacket and begins to line items up on the counter with trembling fingers. A red and green fur stocking trimmed in white. Elmer’s glue. A bottle of red glitter. An orange. Peanut butter M&Ms.

They’re trinkets, each item small and inexpensive, except maybe the stocking. Compassion overwhelms Joseph again, along with something else—a strange, tingly sensation he’s never experienced. He braces his hands on either side of the counter, heart tripping over the bizarre emotion.

He absorbs the stillness, waiting for Nick to speak. Other customers have entered the store now and between the thumps of his own heartbeat, Joseph hears the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet on the floor, the whirr and ding of the old-fashioned cash register.

Those serious blue eyes find his again, wide with appeal.

“It’s Christmas.” The boy gestures at the pile of loot, and Joseph nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I wanted to make a stocking. The sisters hangs some up by the fireplace.” He presses his lips together, as if fearing he’s already said too much. “But I thought…forget it. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all.” Relief floods Joseph, and thanksgiving. A boy who wants a stocking is a boy who hasn’t lost hope. A boy who wants a stocking still believes in the miracle of Christmas.

The sisters.

Nick lives at the convent. Pieces begin to fall into place.

“So see, you can’t call my parents. I have none.” The words come out in a practiced rush, like he’s stood in front of the mirror saying them, reminding himself he belongs to no one.

Joseph picks up the stolen orange and digs into the peel with his thumb, sending a citrus-scented spray across the countertop between them. He separates the fruit and offers a section to Nick.

Nick licks his lips and looks at the segment, hesitating.

The convent takes good care of the children, but special snacks between meals—like a juicy orange in the middle of the morning—are few and far between.

“Go on.” Joseph swallows the lump in his throat and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “There’s no catch. Take it. Growing boys need lots of fruits and vegetables.”

“Orange is my favorite,” Nick mumbles in response, then pops the half-moon into his mouth.

“Mine too.” Joseph eats a piece, then offers the boy another. “Many, many years before you or I were born, Saint Nicholas once knew of a poor man who couldn’t find men to marry his daughters because he didn’t have money. Well Saint Nick, he couldn’t let that stand. He gave all the girls gold, just tossed it through the window. The gold coins landed in their stockings, which were hanging by the fire to dry. That’s one of the reasons we get oranges today. Santa gives them at Christmas as a symbol of the gold that was left in those stockings.”

“Wow. So oranges are like gold.” Nick’s face splits in a gap-toothed grin, dropping his guard for the first time since they met at the front door.

“Something like that.” Joseph grins back, pleased to have wandered onto common ground. Again he finds himself thanking the seminary for grilling him in Church history. “Tell me more about this stocking.”

Nick looks down at the red and green striped sock, the stubborn tightness of his jaw returning. He’s still afraid. Either of being turned in or laughed at, Joseph can’t be sure.

Joseph sighs. “Look, I’m not going to rat you out to the Sheriff, and I’m not calling the convent. You have my word. But trust earns trust. You’ve gotta be straight with me.”

Nick continues to chews his orange with maddening slowness, still saying nothing.

Finally, he swallows the bite and leans forward. “Thought if I had one with my name on it, Santa might come. Last Christmas with Mr. Bailey, he couldn’t find the house.” He looks away. “I’m sorry, Mister. Sorry for stealing. But if Sister Astrid finds out…”

Joseph pinches the bridge of his nose, processing this information. He’s guessing this Bailey guy was the kid’s last foster home, but he doesn’t press him again. Astrid is a kind, compassionate woman and a dear friend of Belle’s, not to mention a fellow former member of the order. “The name’s Joseph, remember? And you’re forgiven. I won’t tell Miss Astrid about what happened today.”

“Thanks, Mister Joe.” His little body sags in relief.

Joe?  He barks a laugh. “Joe, huh? Guess I can live with that.” No one calls him by a nickname, not even Belle. No one except…Merlin. But the angel is long gone; he hasn’t seen him in well over a year, and doesn’t expect to again.

An idea hits him, and he looks at his watch. “I hear Santa is going to visit the Storybrooke Public Library today, right around lunchtime. Why don’t you go over there and see if you can share your Christmas list? I’ll bet he’s making something for you in his workshop, even now. Ask for Miss Belle, she’s the head librarian.”

Nick sits up straighter and his eyes ignite with hope. “That’s where my class was going today! The library! But I didn’t know Santa was gonna be there.” Joseph grins, and his chest inflates with pride in his wife and her clever decision to have Santa treat the children to a story before Christmas.

He shuffles to the wall behind the soda fountain, fishes his own grey wool hat out of his coat pocket, then tugs it down over the boy’s shell-pink ears, careful not to cover his eyes. A fringe of blonde bangs peeks out from under the brim. It’s still a little big, but warm enough to keep the winter wind at bay. “If you go now, I bet you can catch Santa and give him your Christmas wishes, but before you leave, I need you to promise me something.”

Nick’s forehead puckers; once again he’s looking for the catch.

Joseph keeps his gaze locked on his, kind yet penetrating. “The hat is yours to keep, and so are these.” He holds up a sturdy, reusable bag containing the once-stolen goods, now freely given, with three extra oranges for good measure. “Promise me the next time you need something from the store, you’ll come to me and ask. No more stealing.” He holds out his free hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah.” Nick nods and puts his small hand inside Joseph’s and shakes. “Okay, promise.”

The gentle glide of those small, damp fingers across his callused palm makes his knees wobble. Catching his breath, Joseph watches as Nick zips up his coat, hefts the bag of goodies, then heads for the front door.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Joseph calls, feeling oddly desperate.

Nick peers over his shoulder with a shrug. “Why my store?” It’s a stupid question, really, and Joseph isn’t sure what makes him ask. There aren’t many stores in Storybrooke, and the majority of them sit right here on Main Street.

Another shrug. “I like your sign.”

Joseph feels himself smile. The cheery red and white sign was another one of Belle’s improvements when they’d taken ownership of the place.

Nick breaks into a run and charges for the door, the smack of his hands against the glass making the bell jangle merrily. “Bye, Mister Joe! Thanks for the ice cream and stuff!”

Joseph’s smile widens and he waves, while Nick’s steps along the snowy sidewalk in the direction of the library throw fresh white powder against the front window. He thinks about phoning Belle, imagines her sweet laughter on the line as he tells her about his unusual morning and asks her to look out for a curly-haired boy with a crooked smile. But he can’t do that. He made a promise to Nick, and a promise, once broken, can never be made whole. Closing his eyes, he folds his hands on the counter, still littered with orange peels from the snack they shared. He closes his eyes and prays that whatever Nick’s Christmas wishes are, somehow Saint Nicholas will come through.

###

[rjptalk]

I live in Easton, Connecticut, a small town of about 8,000 people. We are proud of our rural, suburban character and our many acres of protected fields and woods. Many of us cling to our strict residential only zoning laws because we want to preserve the beauty and character of our town. There is no main street or any street at all for that matter. But there are several working farms in town. There are also four farm stands that have expanded into larger, more diverse stores. In addition, we have an old inn that is now just a breakfast and lunch restaurant. We have also had two general stores since the 1920’s or 1930’s. Recently, these two stores have modernized. One, The Easton Village Store, became a deli that also sells pizza and some essential grocery items.

The other just reopened after a major transformation and is now my favorite place in town. It’s called Greiser’s after the two generations of store owners. I remember Greiser Sr. from my childhood. The Post Office was part of the general store and Mr. Greiser was both postmaster and store manager.

Post Office when I was a child with Greiser Sr. behind the bars

I was thrilled as a kid that my grandfather would let me hold the mail when we went to the post office. But I was nervous that I might drop some of it into the pickle barrel that sat between me and the post office boxes.

The store when I was a child

When the son, Richard (my age) took over the store around the 1980’s, he petitioned the town to move the post office into its own room, attached to the store. After much wrangling with the zoning board, he was finally granted a zoning variance and the Post Office declared its independence!

Richard standing next to one of his ‘antiques’

Richard continued to sell a smattering of supermarket items. He also had a small deli counter and sold lots of sandwiches to workmen in the area.But his real passion was ‘antiques’ – old stuff, the kind of items which are closer to junk than heirlooms. He collected lots of old stuff and started a side business. He had interesting things like an old gas pump, old phones and typewriters and a full-size carousel horse I adored!

A sad aside – Richard was divorced and subsequently fell in love with the Post Office manager. They married and were very happy together for many years. Then she died suddenly from a massive heart attack in the post office, right next door to her husband. Richard has recently decided to retire and neither of his two children wanted to take over running the store. So he rented the front rooms of the store and kept the back room for his antiques.

The woman he rented to, Adriane, decided to totally reinvent the space. She turned it into a ‘gourmet’ country store and coffee shop. It also sells miscellaneous items like candles and soaps, blankets and aprons and trendy teas. It has a distinctly upscale country vibe.

The décor is warm, comfortable and rustic. There are places to sit down to enjoy your coffee, both inside and out, in an armchair or at a table. And there is still friendly conversation, with Adrianne and with other customers. The experience is still small-town intimate.

But the food is high-end city. The refrigerator section houses vitamin waters, fancy cheeses, cultured butter, frozen pasta and packed, marinated vegetables. The teas and coffees served are in the cappuccino, macchiato, espresso, matcha and chai latte vein.

The baked goods are delicious croissants – almond for sweet and bacon and egg, ham and cheese and spinach and ricotta for savory. The cakes and muffins are flavors like orange spice, morning-glory, and almond poppy-seed. The ‘sandwiches’ are paninis, like Brie and fig preserves on whole grain, locally baked bread.

The funny thing is that The Easton Village Store and Greiser’s are no more than two miles apart. But they are in and represent, two totally different demographics. They are worlds apart.

The Village Store is in the one-acre zoned part of town, which is more suburban and middle class. It’s food tastes run more toward the deli and salad counter at the local supermarket. Simple and traditional. Greiser’s is in the three-acre zoning area and is more rural and upper middle class. Food tastes here run more high-end urban. More Whole Foods than Shoprite.

Adriane behind the counter

I’m thrilled with the new Greiser’s. I love the vibe and the food. I’ll be even more excited when their chef (yes, they have a real chef) starts making cooked meals for dinner take-out.

I never thought I would be able to sit in a comfy chair and enjoy a cappuccino or latte just one mile from my home! (I tried making them at home but without a foam machine, it doesn’t really work).

Comfy chairs at the front window

So one small part of my town is slowly inching its way into a more urban, 2018 food culture. Easton now has a place to go with atmosphere, personality, and charm as well as good food and good conversation. Now I can have a touch of urbanity in my otherwise rural life.

Three Cheers!

CAPPUCCINOS CAME TO TOWN By ELLIN CURLEY I live in Easton, Connecticut, a small town of about 8,000 people. We are proud of our rural, suburban character and our many acres of protected fields and woods.

[vinnymauro-chenzomauro]

P.S. You’re Mine

Word Count: 3,803

Warnings: Mature content and themes

Rating: Teen audiences and up

Summary: Saul "Slash" Hudson has a big secret. He's not meant to be a part of this time line. On a bad acid trip, he was sent into the future where he is now residing. He's been trying to stay low-key as his older self. the one from a different timeline where Slash never went on this drug trip, can't know about his other self as that would cause a paradox. But, he falls in love with someone very close to his older self. Someone that can't know his secret. Vinny also has a huge secret. He's a prince spending his senior year in America. He wants to experience life as a normal American teenager. Vinny also falls in love with someone who can't know his secret. He wants to find a normal love as a normal American teenager. Max is in the middle of this all. He is just a normal teenage. Well, normal in the fact that the situation he is in is normal to him. He's an aspiring photographer with a father and mother he will never know. Max is the man who both Slash and Vinny have fallen in love with. He has a big decision to make when all of this comes crashing down.

Main pairing: Undecided

I really do enjoy a happy ending, to an extent. The whole idea of getting a love is just an amazing thing to ponder when I’m all alone. It would make me so happy to get my own. But I loved dreaming and seeing happy endings play out. When the man finally finds his soulmate. When all of his hard work paid off in the end. When he finally gets to rush into the arms of his love and get swept off of his feet. They would kiss each other and the wonderful lovely sun would begin to set. They would maybe even be on the beach. Then they walk off into the sunset with a smile on their faces. They would go off to live the American dream. Two and a half kids and a white picket fence. Though, I knew that was kind of unrealistic. Not many people really got to do that. To walk off into the sunset and marry their soulmate. It was adorable to watch though, seeing all of the happy couples together. The thought of having a love like the stories in the books is all I ever wanted. But I knew that never happens and if it does, the people involved tended to fall out of love very quickly. 

I smiled to myself and began working on dinner. It was my mom’s favorite, tomato soup. This would definitely be after all of the homework I had and the ACT prep. She loved to make me do the dinner but she liked me doing my homework more. She always say that I would be the breadwinner of the family. I was meant to make all the money in the family. I need to make sure I got into all the Ivy League schools. I needed to do everything I could to be successful but I wanted to become a traveling photographer or a writer, maybe even do both. But she tended to beat me when I expressed my interests in the arts. She would sit on her ass all day and watch whatever she wanted on the internet. Or gamble all of her money away.   Though she was still mooch off of my dad’s will and his insurance money, so the money she gambled away wasn’t hers, technically. It was supposed to be mine. No one knew I was the son of this famous musician. He wanted me to live a normal life but he died before I was born and my mom had just married him after his previous wife (my mom) divorced him. She had me the day before my dad died then she died not too long after. No one would know that I was the kid of a junkie and a rockstar musician. Their names weren’t even put onto my birth certificate because they didn’t want me associated with them. Custody went to my stepmom when she adopted me to probably make money off of my name and my father’s name since a good chunk of the estate went to the male heir of my father. Luckily for me, I was born before he died and was a male heir to his throne. She knew this and she made me do everything around the house. If I didn’t do all of this, I would be beat up by my mom. “Well, she was a pretty girl, but there was so much more to her. She seemed like a total skank, in my opinion. Her hair was all full of extensions and shit. Any real hair on her head was damaged by whatever drugstore silver hair dye she used on it. She was all full of these trashy ass tattoos and he dress was tighter than her skin and it barely passed her ass. All I can say is that she will never be working any type of job with all of those tattoos.” My mom walked in and side eyed me before she sat down at the kitchen table. She nodded lightly before I finished up what I was doing, making her some tomato soup out of the can. I hoped she didn’t notice, but I’m sure she would. I listened in on their conversation, my eyes were down as I avoided eye contact with her, and sighed a bit as she tasted the soup. Her face screwed up as she spat it out. The bowl lifted up a bit as her hands came down onto the table, her fists making a loud banging sound that I am sure the neighbors heard. Some of the hot soup hit my face, burning me. I picked up the bowl and sighed a bit as I looked at her. The anger she had was now turned towards me. I knew what was coming next. She would stand up and she would hit me. I cringed in horror as I prepared myself for the pain. But it never came. I never felt the sting of her hand on mine. I sighed lightly as I gave her a look. She was angered and her hand was raised but someone on the phone seemed to stop her. I sighed lightly and smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. There was a moment were everything hung in the air. It was as if someone had pressed the pause button on the television. The world was frozen around us. My mom didn’t move her hand. It was still raised above her head in anger. I was still in my position of terror, my hands up as I tried to cover my face from the impending doom that was her hand. Nothing moved a centimeter and we barely breathed. No one said anything. Not even the person on the phone said anything. We just stayed there, silent and unmoving. Then the man spoke, breaking up our moment of silence. My mom turned her face back to the phone and broke whatever amount of peace we had in the house. She walked over to the couch and sat down, turning on the television. She was out of my eyesight as soon as she sat down and I was out of hers as the couch faced away from the the kitchen. I sighed and started to clean up the mess she had made. She hadn’t spilled much but it was enough to where most of the table had at least a drop of soup on it. Once I was done with that, I grabbed myself my bowl and headed up to the attic, my room, with some of the soup. It wasn’t enough to fill me but it was enough that she wouldn’t notice that any was gone from the pot if she went in for seconds. I laid on my bed looking up at the ceiling as I tried to let the soup cool a little bit. I turned, grabbing some bread out of the drawer next to me. I smiled and looked down as the soft bread touched my bed. I had bought this, and hid it, all on my own with the money I made from taking photos. It was mostly all I could afford because I didn’t make much from these photos. They were mostly from parties friends held and all that good stuff. It wasn’t much but it meant food. I sighed and looked over at the steaming bowl of soup. It had cooled down a bit and I was able to pick it up without much pain. I began sopping up the soup with the bread. I smiled as the warm bread went down my throat. I smiled and curled around the bowl. The heat from it warmed up my lap and hands. “Maxwell Andrew! Did you steal some soup?” My mom called angrily from the first floor. I jumped, immediately hiding the bowl and bread in my nightstand drawer. I could hear her coming up the stairs. I straightened up and got on my laptop. I was on a random educational website before she burst open the door. “No mother, I did not steal any of the soup.” I said calmly even though my heart was pounding in my chest. “Then why is some of it missing?” She asked, her voice eerily clam as she moved to stand at the foot of my bed. “Because I gave some of it to you to eat but you slammed your fist on the table and it spilled everywhere. I cleaned it up and I came up here.” I smiled lightly as I sort of told the truth. A growl left her mouth as she stood up, heading out of my room. She somehow accepted the partial truth for once. She never did that. I normally had to tell her a lie and then the partial truth. Then the whole truth then she would still not believe me. But she actually allowed me to go with the partial truth. I slowly pulled the soup and finished it up quickly. A random number popped up on my phone along with a text, “Are you down for a photoshoot tonight?” “Who is this? If you don’t mind me asking.” I texted back and almost immediately got a text back from them. “The name is Saul Hudson and I would like to make sure I look good for some social media posts I want to make. I also want to make sure I get my name out there along with some talented photographers. I found you through a really good friend and I really want to get my photos taken by you. They said to got to your Instagram page and I found your phone number there and I know this is probably really creepy but I really do want to work with you. Are you interested?” I smiled lightly and looked him up on Instagram, which thankfully he had. I screenshotted the page and sent it to him. “Is this you?” I asked, looking at the handsome man in the photos. I scrolled through them and smiled. He had thick curly hair that was almost always pulled back into a bun and dark tanned skin. He was ethnically ambiguous and if he hadn’t put that he was mixed (half black and half white), I wouldn’t know what race he was. A small smattering of freckles went across his cheeks and nose. He smiled lightly in almost every photo. When the sun hit his eyes, the color was a beautiful golden brown. “Yeah, that’s me. Are you interested in doing a photoshoot with me?” He asked and I smiled lightly. I nodded to myself and smiled lightly. “Yes, I am very interested in doing a photoshoot with you.” Ideas were already running through my head with what I could do. “What’s your hourly rate?” He asked and I didn’t know how to respond to that. I never worked for an hourly rate before. I just got whatever people could pay. They weren’t as rich as what my photos told and I know my photos made it seem that way. “I don’t really have one, to be honest. People just tend to pay me whatever they can pay me.” My hands shook as I looked at the texts coming through to my phone. “I’ll pay you around fifty for the first hour and then one hundred for every hour after that. How does that sound?” He asked and I smiled lightly. “Of course. What day and time do you want to meet?” I asked as I looked at the phone in front of me. “How about this Saturday at noon?” He asked and I went to check my calendar, a Guns N’ Roses one that featured photos of them from their glam era. I was definitely free and I would be for awhile. “Yep, I am free this Saturday. We’ll meet at Elementary Park. The lighting is really good down there.” “Sounds amazing. I’ll see you then.” The texts stopped and I smiled to myself. I had a high paying job for once. I mean, meals were amazing and all but money allowed me to purchase my own shit. Save it up and be able to love this life a bit more because it’s one more step towards freedom. One more step towards a life away from the person I called a mom. I really don’t even know why I called her my mom. She just raised me and she did a pretty shitty job at it. I was so detached from her and she never seemed to really care for me. She had her own kids that she never really cared for. The kids’ fathers actually had custody of the. She only saw them once a week. I never seemed to think that I was going to be all that cared for but I wanted a mother and a father figure. I blindly put that love into her but she never returned it. She always hit me and downed me. I moved and looked down at myself, heading over to the mirror in my room. I began doing my hair which was thick, brown and curly. It took a bit to actually do my hair. A lot of product went into my hair. Not as much as people with kinky hair but it still took a bit. I washed and dried my hair with shampoo, doing a hot oil treatment afterwords. It was similar to the man who asked me for pictures today. I slowly brushed my hair and looked at myself. The same smattering of freckles went across my cheeks and nose that was the same as the man. We shared the same green eyes and I looked at the photos again. We did look similar but I chalked it up to that we were both mixed. At least, one of us was mixed. I didn’t know what race I was. I finished my hair and twisted it out before heading into the shower. I brushed across some tattoos and a few scars on my body. Some I didn’t want to go away. They were more like battle scars than anything. Bits and pieces of my life that I never wanted to forget. The ones from abuse and the ones from a bit of violence against me. Some from surgeries that I had. It was like a story of what happened to me. What was once a terrible story happened to turn into a lovely story. A story I wanted to tell with other people. Ones I had already shared through my ‘I Am Human’ series with my photography.   I kind of told it because I wanted people to be able to tell their stories. Or tell the stories of the ones who’s voices who were not heard. It was either because of abuse or that they weren’t out of the closet yet. My heart actually broke for those who had to hide who they were. It made me want to do more for them. To help them out but I really couldn’t. I had no money to really help them at all. I vowed to help them out as soon as I got money. They were always getting hurt and there were terrible stories coming out every day. I saw the photos of people after getting their faces bashed in. It really broke me down to the bone. But no one seemed to care about my community. No one seemed to want to help the gay community out. All these people cared about was taking selfies and getting boob jobs to care for the community that was fighting for their rights and lives almost every day since Stonewall. All we really wanted was to live in equality.   I felt like I had to be strong for these people and weak all at the same time. I wanted to show them that I was also a bit in between. Not all the way strong and not all the way weak. Just neutral. I wanted them to be proud of who they were just like me. That I was human to all of those bigoted people out there. I wanted to show that I was a bit of a freak and weirdo sometimes. That it was okay sometimes to call yourself a weirdo and a freak. I was different and weirdly unique. I loved who I was and who I loved. I wanted to be able to love who I pleased because I was just like another human being out there. I had faith in the fact that people would see my work and take faith in the fact that there was someone out there showing their story. That the story I was telling was a lot better than fearing the other side. We could just open our minds and we could see this world as beautiful and wonderful. There had to be some truth into both sides of the argument. I allowed people to tell their story and then judge them. That we had to open out minds and hearts before we could even judge people. Before I said anything I wondered how it would hurt the person if I ever said anything. My silence could not be bought and that’s why I started this project. Nor did I want to shout this from the rooftops. I didn’t want to take anything away from the project. My project was lowkey both and that was okay with me. The whole project had to speak for itself. It made me feel so good to be telling this story. I got out of the shower and smiled lightly as I moved into my room. The room as a bit messy but it wasn’t to the point where I needed to actually clean it. It made me feel a bit bad for not doing it earlier. My mom actually kept saying that I needed to clean it before she beat my ass but I kept pushing that boundary further and further. I wanted to know how far I could push this test before I actually got my ass beat. I stepped over some clothes and picked up a pair of boxers. I set it next to me as I dried my hair with a shirt. I put my phone on my nightstand and put it on its charger. It was getting pretty late and I needed to be at school early for a photography project. I pulled on my boxers and smiled, laying down in bed. ~ As soon as I woke up the next morning, I took the bread out of my nightstand. I snuck downstairs and grabbed some food. I grabbed some of the extra tomato soup. I smiled lightly and headed out. My mom was passed out on the couch. She cuddled into her boyfriend. He was watching some late night television. I don’t think he heard me. Though he seemed to move a bit when I saw him. I smiled as I watched a bit of the show he was watching. It seemed to be one of those super dramatic police shows. I smiled and looked at him. He didn’t seem to see me either. Which was a good thing. He probably would have beat me for being up this early. Say I was disturbing his peace or whatever. He could’ve easily noticed me. He wasn’t making any attempt to actually notice me. I backed out of the room and smiled, heading outside. I mounted my bike, an old motorcycle that my dad fixed up. He left it to me in his will for me. It was said that he fixed it up for me. He wanted his kid to have a ‘sick ass ride’ to get on their sixteenth birthday. I wasn’t really that mad about it. I loved this piece of my dad. It was the one of the only things I had left of him. I had this motorcycle and the entirety of his closet, which I tended to where on the daily. I loved the slightly baggy clothes and the eighties vibe it gave off. Even some of his more recent clothing, the shirts and pants he had gotten for his ‘business trip’ before he died, were very lowkey and comfy. Mom wanted it to be throw away. She hated being reminded of my dad. She said that she wanted to move on with her life. Mom didn’t care that I wore his clothes. She was just aggravated that I was still using the motorcycle. I knew it was a ‘death trap’ and she reminded me of that every chance she got. I walked down the lone hallway, not a single human being in sight. I mean, there would be another human soon. The janitor waiting to opening the art studio door for me. But when I stopped at the door, she wasn’t there yet. I waited for a few minutes before she came, hobbling down the hallway unhappily. She didn’t even have a hint of a smile on her face. I smiled awkwardly as she fumbled with the keys. Once she finally got ahold of the right key, she opened the door, letting me. I walked into the studio and smiled lightly. My teacher had actually left the keys for me. He wanted me to get this project done. There were a few paint splatters on the wooden tables. I smiled lightly as I brushed against them, dragging my fingertips across the tables lightly. The air was a bit cold as the heat hadn’t kicked in just yet. Teachers won’t even be here for another hour. I walked to the teacher’s dead at the front of the room. I sat down and pulled out the middle drawer. The keys to the darkroom sat in the middle of the room. I smiled and looked down lightly as I took the keys. I stepped across the room and opened the darkroom up. This was where I lived and spent most of my time. Lunch and most days after school were spent here. I sometimes spent early mornings and weekends here. But that was only if the school allowed me here. That was very rare and I tended not to get access. So each chance I got to get in here early was a gift. My teacher tended to back me up on these early morning trips. Everyone knew most of my works decorated the halls and that I was supposed to be on my way to the best school in the United States for art, the California Institute of the Arts. Which I was ecstatic to actually try and get in. Which is why I was here so early. I had to finish up my portfolio before the deadline to apply.