#I just think normal Killian's reaction would be so fucking hilarious

[piraterefrigerator]

Wow I was like "Tbh Weaver and Rogers would be cute, the asshole buddy cop complex is fun" and now I am completely on that bandwagon

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU 

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also on ff.net and ao3

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Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Hope you packed your crash helmets. This is a bumpy ride. Eternal thanks to @fraddit for holding my hand as I put this together. Maybe it’s not ready yet, but it’s spent enough time living rent-free in my head.

***

Killian

August W. Booth. Killian would never admit it, but he knew the name, even before Emma Swan had tumbled into his life. He’d remembered seeing it grace the spine of a book on the shelf of his old flat, back in London. He’d remembered asking Milah about it, and he remembered her non-committal response.

“It’s alright,” she’d said, flopping down onto the bed beside him. “If you’re into Americans who read too much Kafka travelling the world to ‘find themselves’.” She’d even done the air quotes, and he’d smiled at her honesty.

And in the months after she was gone, and he was left with nothing but her meagre possessions, he’d picked it up and read it cover to cover, in an effort to be closer to her.

But it really was just a book.

Killian didn’t want to ‘find himself’ on a Thai beach. Or follow in the footsteps of obscure European authors. Or even consume a questionable amount of hallucinogens. He had just wanted to wake up in a world where Milah still slept soundly beside him.

He’d donated the book to a charity shop on Camden High Street, along with most of Milah’s clothes.

He’d never imagined he’d meet the author. Or that he’d kind of hate him.

How to describe that first moment with August W. Booth? At first, Emma had been beside him, her hand held tight to his sleeve as they waded into the party throng. And then, with something that sounded like a choked sob, she was gone.

It was only when the crowd parted that he saw the spectacle for himself. Emma Swan, laughing. Damn near hysterical laughing, having launched herself at this bearded bloke in cable knit jumper. He’d barely caught her, but he had, even if he’d knocked over his beer in the process.

“Emma Swan, as I live and breathe!” The man, August, had declared, lifting her off her feet. “Have you gained weight?”

She smacked him on the shoulder, but her smile was still beatific, even as he set her back down. Killian had never seen that smile. Not once.

“Lost it, actually. Didn’t you hear? I run now. Like, habitually.”

“Now I come to think of it, Ruby did say something about that. But I assumed she was joking.”

Another smack. Another round of smiles as they talked over each other, trying to make up for lost time.

Killian was not a wallflower by nature, but something about the ready intimacy of their chatter kept him on the periphery, hovering awkwardly by a potted palm he highly suspected to be fake. He was just reaching out his hand to check when he felt a tug on his prosthetic.

She was dressed like Hilary Clinton, her blonde wig drunkenly askew. “Why’s your hand made of plastic?” she asked with all the tact of someone six vodka cranberries deep. “It is real? That’s sooo weird. Did you have some, like, terrible accident?”

Her accent was American, but much more the bubbly Southern Californian version than the one he was used to. He didn’t find it endearing.

“Hilary!” he greeted her with a forced smile, snatching his prosthetic back from her grasp. “Long time no see. How’s Bill? Still a complete cad?”

Her face was a picture of confusion. “My name is Hadley?” She looked down at her pantsuit, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “This is just a costume,” she explained slowly. “You know, for the party?”

“You don’t say! My apologies, Hadley. I mistook you for a woman of substance.”

It was not the most gentlemanly brushoff, but it did the trick.

Hadley squinted up at him for a few long moments, before tipping the rest of her drink down his front. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

He was, and he did. And thanks to her dramatics, the rest of the room were fast becoming aware of the fact too, even as her (seventh?) vodka cranberry seeped miserably into his shirt. He looked up just in time to catch Emma’s raised eyebrows as she approached, August following in her wake.

“Uh, do I want to know what you said to Hilary to piss her off?” she asked.

“Nothing she hadn’t already heard on the campaign trail,” Killian muttered, fanning his shirt away from where it was sticking fast to his chest. “I don’t know what it is about this party, Swan, but it doesn’t much approve of our outfits.”

Emma opened her mouth to retort, when a hand suddenly appeared in front of Killian’s face, attached to a weaselly-looking novelist.

“August Booth. You must be the Graham Humbert I’ve heard so much about?”

And he thought having a drink thrown over him would be the most aggrieving event of the evening.

“Killian Jones,” he corrected, delivering a slightly firmer handshake than necessary. “And I’m leaving.”

***

I feel like that could’ve gone better. ES

Are you okay? ES

Jones? ES

I’ve had worse things thrown at me than a girly cocktail, Swan. I dare say I’ll survive. KJ

Probably. But that’s not what I meant. ES

You should probably get back to your surprise visitor. He came a long way to see you. KJ

August is big boy. He can handle himself for a few minutes. Are you at home?  ES

No. KJ

So you’re walking around at large with a huge purple stain down your shirt? ES

Apparently so. KJ

That’s not weird at all. ES

How fortuitous then, that I’m not your problem. KJ

Wow. Okay. I guess you’re not. Fuck you very much. ES

***

It was a foolish idea. He had reminders set on his phone that pinged at regular intervals to remind him of exactly how foolish an idea it was. And yet, there he was anyway. Half a bottle of Captain Morgan later, standing outside Tink’s building in Newington, leaning on the buzzer.

The intercom chirruped into life. “If you don’t have a pizza, I don’t know you.”

He grinned, and leaned close to the speaker. “Margherita Cheese, extra olives.”

There was a pregnant pause. And then the front door buzzed open.

It wasn’t terribly late, by their usual standards. Barely past sunset, now they weren’t long past the solstice. And yet when Tink opened the door she was definitely wearing pyjamas. The kind one actually slept in, rather than entertained in.

Not that she seemed to care either way, tearing the pizza box from his hands with barely more than a nod in his direction. He followed her in anyway, and sat in her kitchen as she devoured half of it before coming up for air.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“My flatmate has us all on the Keto diet,” she shrugged by way of explanation. “It’s been hell. You know how many Greggs franchises I have to walk past on my way to work? It was only a matter of time until I cracked. But I’m glad it was you,” she crooned to the last of her pizza. “You were worth the wait.”

“I can’t decide if this is pathetic or adorable,” Killian mused.

“Definitely pathetic,” Tink declared, closing the box at last. “But you’re one to talk. You look rough as guts. And what did you get all over your shirt?”

He knew he should’ve stopped home to change first.

“Vodka cranberry, I believe.”

“Ooh,” she said, folding her hands under her chin. “The plot thickens. A deliberate attack?”

“It... may have been.”

She snorted. “You always know how to charm a lady, Jones. Until you don’t.”

“You never seemed to mind,” he reminded her, with a sly smile in her direction.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, before hooking a thumb in her direction. “Pathetic, remember?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said silky, letting his hand come to rest on hers. “In fact, I seem to recall a rather impressive list of talents…”

Tink slid her hand out from under his, to slap herself in the forehead. “So that’s what you’re doing here! It all makes sense now. You’ve had a shit night, and now you thought you’d show up, and what? I’d take you into my bedroom and help you forget all about it?”

“No, I just-”

“Just thought I was your standby girl. And I get it. I really do. Lord knows, I played the part enough times. But, honestly, Killian, wouldn’t you rather be with someone you’re actually crazy about? Like, oh, I don’t know...” She tapped her chin meaningfully, “...Emma?”

Something inside of him constricted at the sound of her name on Tink’s lips, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t want to think about her, or any of it. To hell with them.  

“Who’s Emma?” he replied, leaning in again. “All I see is you.”

He saw the slap coming, but his reactions weren’t what they were.

“Hey, you know we’re friends, right?” she said, her words a direct contradiction to the stinging of his cheek.  “I know we made a mess of things, but I thought we could still talk to each other. What’s going on? Because you’re not here because you find me completely irresistible.”

“Don’t I, love?”

It was a last ditch effort, but she wasn’t buying it.

“No, you don’t.” She sounded a little sad when she said it. “So start talking, or your drunken arse is getting an Uber. And you can start with what happened with Emma.”

“Nothing happened with Emma,” Killian muttered, looking around her kitchen for a possible source of alcohol. Any alcohol. So consumed was he by the search he didn’t catch Tink spiriting his phone from his pocket until she was already back in her chair again, scouring through his latest messages.

He really should’ve changed his passcode months ago.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I stand corrected,” she said, sliding it back across the table towards him with a roll of her eyes. “Nothing happened at all.”

Anger flaring, he snatched it back. “That’s really none of your business, love.”

“It is when you’re sitting in my kitchen, smelling like a distillery, and looking to use my body to distract you from your problems.”

God, he really was an arsehole. No wonder everyone he knew despised him. At last his eyes alighted on a stoppered bottle of brown liquid tucked away on top of the fridge. He stood up to retrieve it, and removed the stopper with his teeth.

He ducked down to take a whiff. Brandy. Perfect.

He found a pair of relatively clean glasses in the dish rack, and poured a generous measure into each.

“Peace offering?” he asked, slinging one of them in Tink’s direction.

Her glower didn’t abate any, but she accepted the glass anyway, wincing as her first sip hit her tongue.

“Needs water,” she said, handing it back with a cough.

Killian dutifully filled it up from the tap, and returned to his old place at the table. Just his performing this small act seemed to soften her somewhat, because the anger faded from her eyes.

“Look, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m trying a new thing. It’s called: ‘I only sleep with guys who are actually into me.’ And you know what? It’s going pretty good. I don’t wake up feeling like shit all the time.”

There was a novel concept.

“I’ve been an arsehole,” Killian summed up.

“Sometimes,” Tink agreed, with a comforting pat to his shoulder. “But I knew what your deal was. You get into bed with a guy with a missing hand and another girl’s name tattooed on his arm, you don’t really expect it’ll work out long-term.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Aye, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did,” she said, with an unapologetic grin. “But it’s okay. We were both just biding our time. Me until I grew some self-esteem, and you until your heart healed over a little.”

He wondered if it had. The wounds had been there so long, cut so deep, he rarely pressed them anymore. Rarely tested the strength of the scar tissue that had grown in their place.

“Well then,” he said, raising his glass. “To your self-esteem.”

Their glasses clinked, and he took his first sip. The brandy was thick across his tongue, but warming. A little burst of liquid courage to ask the question he’d been turning over and over in his mind since he’d glanced into Emma’s eyes on that settee, and felt things start to shift.

“You ever feel like there’s some things you just can’t get away from, no matter how hard you try?” he asked.

“My parents named me Tinker Bell. What do you think?” she replied, deadpan.

“Fair point,” he conceded, suddenly wishing he’d never opened his fool bloody mouth.

Unfortunately, Tink was not a mind reader and she didn’t let it go. “Are you talking about Milah?”

It had been so long since anyone had said her name aloud, he couldn’t entirely stop himself from flinching.

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Not entirely. I just… I’m not sure there’s ever really any overcoming the fundamental truths of our past.”

“Fundamental truths?” she asked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like, for example,” he began, wetting his lips with another syrupy slug of Brandy. “Everything my brother has ever done in his life has been to distance himself from our father. He’s got the upstanding, family man bit down. He’s a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie. But when push comes to shove, they still made the exact same mistakes.”

She cocked her head to the side, considering this. “I mean, there’s a genetic component to addiction. And idiocy, arguably. But I don’t believe in that ‘sins of the father’ bullshit. You are who you make yourself into. I’m not saying it’s easy to break the pattern, but it’s doable.”

Killian wanted to believe that. But he wasn’t so sure he did.

“I couldn’t,” he pointed out. “When I lost Milah, I-” The rum in his stomach roiled, and he wondered if he was going to throw up. He wondered how long it would take for Tink to throw him out after. But after a moment, the feeling passed, and he realised she was still waiting for him to finish his thought. “I… I was no different,” he finished, feeling foolish.

“So you lost someone who mattered to you, and you handled it badly?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make you your Dad. It makes you a person with a heartbeat.”

Killian stretched his prosthetic out on the table in front of him, considering the shiny piece of hardware. His most expensive souvenir from the shortest trip he’d ever taken.

“It’s not a liability, you know,” Tink said gently, nudging his prosthesis with her glass. “The hand. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. And it wasn’t. Drunken Hilary’s ill-timed comments had certainly hit their mark, but it wasn’t just the hand. It was what it represented. The very permanent reminder that he was no longer entirely whole.

Most days, he was fine with that. It was much the same as his tattoo. He liked having that proof. However tenuous. However painful. It was a tether to a time he’d been truly happy, and it was a comfort to him, to know he hadn’t imagined it.

Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he’d held on too long.

Tink had said so herself, they’d never stood a chance. That hadn’t bothered him so much before, because he hadn’t really been looking for one. At least, not with Tink.

“I think I fucked up with Emma,” he blurted out.

“Oh, you think?” Tink sneered, downing the last of her glass.

“I… definitely fucked up with Emma,” he agreed, tipping his head back to finish his own drink. It burned, and he let it. He deserved it.

This time it was Tink who reached for the bottle, pouring them another measure each. She didn’t top this one off with water

“To bitchy texts,” she declared, holding her glass aloft. “Ruining everything.”

Killian drank to that.

“So, are we past the denial portion of the evening? You like her, right?” Tink had that twinkle in her eye again. The same one she’d had when she realised the stain on his shirt hadn’t been an accident. Dirt. That was all she wanted.

“I… sometimes.”

Tink rolled her eyes. “Way to commit”

“She’s attractive,” Killian shrugged. “And I find myself... attracted.”

Tink blew a raspberry. “Oh, c’mon. I read your column. You are not subtle. You might as well start drawing ‘KJ 4 ES’ hearts all over your homework.”

“They aren’t that bad,” Killian scoffed.

“Really? Have you read the comment section lately? People ship it!”

“People are little old ladies with too much time to spend on Facebook between soap operas,” Killian responded blithely.  “I’m not overly concerned with their opinions.”

“How about mine? I saw you two sing an Elton John medley together, remember? That wasn’t attraction. That was fireworks.”

“It was stage theatrics,” he corrected. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She’s not the forgiving type. I’m not getting back in her good graces.”

“So why screw everything up in the first place? Jealousy?”

Yes.

Killian sighed. “A friend of hers is in town.”

“Like a special friend?”

“Like an old friend. Her oldest. She’s different with him. Happier. I’ve never seen her smile so much. I didn’t even know she could.”

“And you wish that was you? Making her happy?”

Yes.

Killian snorted. “She doesn’t want me.”

“How do you know? Did you ask her?”

As if that was something he could casually slip in a conversation somewhere. ‘Here’s your pint.. Oh, by the way, I quite fancy you and I was wondering if you fancy me back?’

“I think you’re forgetting she has already has a suitor.”

“Who? That Grant guy? They’ve been on what? Two dates? Two dates is not a relationship. Even I’ve spent more time with her than that.”

“Her friend certainly seemed to know all about him..” Killian swallowed back the bile in his throat at the thought.

Tink looked skeptical. “I doubt there’s much to know.”

“And I’ll remind you that this is all for naught, since we’ve established that I made a complete tit of myself, and she’s never speaking to me again.”

They both went silent at the thought. Tink refreshed their drinks.

“Well, then,” she said, offering up her glass for another impromptu toast. “Here’s to learning how to grovel.”

***

I’m sorry. I’m a complete arse. KJ

Yep. ES

***

Killian awoke in a strange room, his mouth dry and his virtue intact. It took him a moment of watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of morning light above his head to figure out exactly where he was.

Tink’s flat. It looked different by day. Shabbier. More lived in. He’d ended up on the sofa somehow, alone, twisted up in a crochet blanket into a strange configuration that would give him hell later. He was still wearing all of his clothes. Even the shirt with the cranberry stain down the front.

He could hear a radio somewhere nearby, giving a bleak update on the state of traffic on the City Bypass. Pipes shuddered, and soft feminine whispers punctuated the spaces between. The smell of burnt coffee grounds wafting up from the cafe downstairs, as the city woke to a new day.

He lay his head back down, and scrubbed at his face with his hand.

How many drinks had it been, all told? Eighty? Too many, he admitted to himself, as he surfed an accompanying wave of nausea.  It was time to find a new crutch. He wasn’t a student anymore.

“Hey, you’re up.” Tink’s voice was fuel to his headache, but her tone was friendly. He sat up to see her standing in the doorway, holding a giant steaming mug in her hands. The underlying tension of their usual morning after routine was gone. She looked comfortable, in a way he’d rarely seen.

“That for me?” he asked, hopefully.

“It is. Thought it might help with the, ah, sore head.”

It did. From the very first sip, Killian felt the fog in his head clearing, and life returning to his limbs. “Thanks, love.”

She nodded, and stepped back. “I was going to let you sleep, but uh, well… your sister-in-law is here.”

Killian nearly dropped the mug. “Elsa’s here?”

“In the kitchen. She showed up about ten minutes ago. You want me to send her in?”

Elsa. In Tink’s kitchen. Like his life hadn’t been strange enough lately.

“What is she-?”

“She didn’t say. But she-” Tink hesitated. “She looks rough. Kind of upset, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. Elsa was the queen of poise. She rarely let her feelings show, least of all to practical strangers. Was it Liam? The boys? Dammit, where was his phone? Had something happened?

He was already on his feet when Elsa rounded the doorway. And even with the warning, it was still a shock to see her. She did, indeed, look rough. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her face noticeably puffy. She’d forgone the implacable facade she carried with her into the outside world.

“I’ll just… leave you two alone,” Tink said, backing out of the room.

He took a few steps towards Elsa, and then hesitated. “Is everyone-”

“Everyone’s fine. Alive. Healthy. I promise.” She tried for a reassuring smile, but it did nothing of the sort. “Robin told me you might be here. And I’m really sorry to intrude-”

“Elsa,” he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “You’re never intruding. What’s happened?”

She bit her lip, but a single tear still managed to escape, unbidden, trailing down her fair cheek. “You know, I was beginning to think he was cheating on me?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, like that might stem the tide.

Oh god.

“He’d never.” Coming to Liam’s defence was automatic at this point. A reflex.

“No,” she agreed. “He’ll lie, and he’ll steal,  and he’ll gamble, but he won’t cheat.” The sound might’ve been a laugh, if it wasn’t so bitter. So hard. “I know everything. About the money. Weaver. He called me at work, asked after the children. He knew their names. Where they go to school. He even knew the colour of Lachie’s scooter!”

Fear slid into his abdomen like a blade, sharp and cold. “He wouldn’t-”

“He won’t!” Elsa’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I paid him his money. I did everything he asked. Malcolm Weaver has no reason to come near any of us, ever again.”

It was a curious mixture of relief and anxiety, all muddled together, making Killian’s head swim. And somewhere in the mix, guilt. A sense of culpability. “I should’ve told-”

“No,” she said, eyes shining with renewed anger. “My husband should’ve told me. He should’ve trusted me, like I thought I trusted him. And he never should’ve put you in the position of having to lie for him. Or lie to your family. And your eye-”

Her tears were flowing freely now, and Killian’s grip on her arms tightened. “He’s an idiot. And he’s too proud for his own good. But you know he never wanted to hurt you, or disappoint you. You or the boys.”

“I know,” Elsa hiccuped. “But he did. Not because he made a mistake-” She physically swatted the idea away. “We all do that. But because he couldn’t be honest with me. That’s not the marriage I thought I had.”

“Had?” The way she’s said it, it sounded so… final.

Elsa swiped a sleeve across her cheeks, mopping up her tears. “I love him, Killian. You know I love him. But I can’t look at him right now. Anna asked me to stay. I’ll take the boys to New York for the summer. I don’t need them getting caught up in all this.”

“But you are coming back?” The lump in Killian’s throat had nearly doubled. As much as he’d resented being the black sheep in a flock of prize Merinos, he couldn’t quite imagine a life now without them.

Elsa smiled a dim smile. “This is home. And you Jones Boys, you’re home too,” she said, gathering him into a fierce hug. “And you’re always going to be a part of this family, with or without Liam. You know that, don’t you?”

It was an oft-repeated phrase of hers. Always trying to include him. Always trying to set him at ease. But it had never really rung true, before. He’d never been wholly convinced. They were a family, and he was an interloper. A squatter. He’d come to terms with that.

It wasn’t until he found himself crushed under the weight of Elsa’s furious embrace that he finally let himself see it. It wasn’t just Elsa’s bird bones that had a hold on him. It was her affection for him. Her love. The well ran deep, the force more formidable than he would have imagined. A sister’s love.

“Aye,” he said, letting his chin rest atop her shoulder. “I know that.”

They separated a bit, and she smiled her first real smile. “Took you long enough.”

“I’m a Jones,” he shrugged wryly. “We’re not the smartest.”

“No,” Elsa agreed, sweeping his hair from his forehead like he’d watched her do for Lachie and Callum a thousand times. A protective, nurturing gesture. Automatic as breathing. “And what did you do to your shirt?”

***

I am your problem. That is, I wish to be your problem. KJ

I confess: I was an almighty dickhead the other night. And if you don’t forgive me for that, I would understand. KJ

I made you feel as if you weren’t important to me, but that isn’t true. We’re friends. Good friends, I hope. I was angry at so many people that night, but none of them were you. You just got caught in the crossfire, and I can only apologise for that. I would like to do so in person, if you’d permit me. KJ

You give good apology, Killian Jones. But I know how good you are with words. ES

Not good enough, apparently. KJ

You know you made me feel like an idiot, right? For thinking we were friends? ES

We are friends. I’m just a spectacularly bad one, sometimes. I could blame the drink, or the stress of Liam’s secret, or Hilary’s tactless comments about my hand, or August not having a clue who I was, or even how fucking raw I was after sitting on that settee with you. But the truth is, sometimes I’m not quite the man I want to be. KJ

Maybe you don’t want to be friends with someone like that. I wouldn’t blame you. But I also think you understand, perhaps better than anyone, why we push people away without really meaning to. KJ

A little fucked up. A little scared. KJ

I understand. ES

I mean, I’m still kind of pissed. ES

But I get it. ES

Pint? KJ

Busy. I’m babysitting a novelist, remember? They’re very high maintenance. ES

Bring him along. Don’t you think it’s about time he learned of the wonder that is Open Mic Night? They moved it to Friday this week. KJ

Oh no. That can only end in heartbreak. ES

Heartbreak Hotel ;-) KJ.

Maybe next time, Jones. ES

I look forward to it, Swan. KJ

***

Emma and her novelist never made an appearance at Open Mic Night, though Killian spent half the night watching the door anyway. Not the entire night, mind. Robin was being far too entertaining for that.

His bereaved, beloved Robin, who’d taken the stage and was attempting a version of Wild Thing complete with a series of hip gyrations which made Eddie Vedder’s relationship with his microphone stand seem chaste.

A courtship display if Killian had ever seen one. All directed at the brunette in the front row, who looked decidedly more like the university administrator she was than Killian remembered last time he’d seen her. As Wonder Woman. Out of costume, she was better recognised as Regina Mills, University Vice-Chancellor.

Apparently they were dating now. And things were going well.

He could only confess to a little jealousy. Robin, more than anyone he knew, deserved a little happiness. Though when things started to get hot and heavy after Robin’s encore, Killian was only too happy to make his excuses.

***

Returning home to the big empty house in Merchiston brought mixed feelings. Killian still preferred his bed to the medieval torture device which was Tink’s sofa, but there was something unnerving about the place with the boys gone. Without laughter, or chaos, or the 60% chance of treading on a stray Lego brick with your bare feet at any given moment.

He was almost disappointed when he made it down the hallway unscathed in the dark. Right up until the moment he switched on his bedroom light, and found a dark clad figure standing directly before him.

His scream was not particularly masculine. Not as he stumbled backwards, and not as he picked up the nearest object and threw it with all of his might at his would-be attacker.

The boot caught the figure upside the head, hard enough to have him swearing. By the second string of curses, Killian realised his mistake.

“Bloody hell, Liam. Do you have a death wish?” he asked, dropping the second boot and coming to his brother’s side. “I thought I was about to meet my fucking maker.”

“My. Mistake,” Liam ground out through gritted teeth, hands still clutched to his head where Killian had struck his blow. Liam didn’t have to ask who he’d mistaken him for. Even after Elsa’s intervention, the spectre of Weaver’s goons loomed large in their imaginations.

And that’s when he saw it, lying on the rug where it had fallen during their altercation. The Galaxy bar.

Liam’s eyes followed his gaze, crinkling slightly despite his pain. “Happy St Killian’s Day, little brother.”

***

-KJ has sent you a document file-

What’s this? ES

I’m sure even you can recognise a Word document when you see one, Swan. KJ

I mean, why am I getting it? You’ve never sent me a copy of your column before it’s published before. ES

I’m trying something new. It’s called ‘consideration for other people’s feelings’. KJ

Huh. Seems kind of out of character for you. ES

I probably deserved that. KJ

You definitely did. ES

This column touches on some… more sensitive topics. I’d feel more comfortable having your approval before I took it to Liam. Would you please indulge me? KJ

Fiiiine. ES

... ES

Um. Wow. ES

Too personal. Understood. Consider it vanquished. KJ

No! I mean, yeah, it’s personal. But it’s… real. I never really… It’s good, Killian. And if Liam doesn’t have a problem with it, then I don’t have a problem with it. ES

You’re positive? Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. KJ

Positive. ES

As you wish. KJ

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

NO LEG TO STAND ON WAS SO POWERFUL! I AM IN AWE OF YOUR WRITING! I REALLY LOVE THIS SERIES, BUT THIS LAST ONE WAS INTENSE! BETH NEEDS TO FESS UP! I'M SO DISAPPOINTED IN HER! THOUGH WES HUNGOVER ON THE COUCH WAS HILARIOUS! AND HARRISON BEING CALLED "UNCLE HARRY" BY LUCY IS SOOOO CUTE! AHHHH!

Wow! I don’t know if it was your desired affect but I read that as you shouting at me, which is totally cool Anyway, I’m glad you liked the first part of No Leg to Stand On. I’m kinda stunned by the reactions I’ve gotten for it so far. It’s been very overwhelming. I mean I was expecting some comments but nothing like what I’ve gotten.

I think the general consensus is that everyone is disappointed in Beth. I love Beth, she’s one of my favorites characters, but she’s not without her screw ups. I don’t condone what she did at all. As a person, I think she should have been mature and fessed up, but as an author, I think it’s very true to who Beth is. She’s someone that tries to be more cool and mature than she actually is and will do anything to keep being the apple in her father’s eye. She idolizes Killian and doesn’t want anything to threaten her relationship with him and her mother. It was a daunting situation and she just didn’t want to face the music.

I personally loved writing the scene between the boys and Lucy. Plotwise it must have looked a little redundant to spend some much time fleshing out that scene, but I really wanted to explore the relationships that Henry has with his siblings and give a little comic relief to an otherwise serious fic. I love hungover Wes a lot. He gives even less fucks than regular Wes and really just spends his time eating and watching trashy television. I find that humanizing in a more fun way than just showing his dirtbag-ness at times.

As for Lucy calling Harrison “Uncle Harry.” Harrison is normally not a Harry at a lot, but when she was little, Lucy had trouble saying Harrison so they shortened it to Harry. She’s probably the only person in the world who could get away with that really. Anyone else, he would stare you down and mentally pitch you out a window.