#I understand I am the sole supply and demand for this AU

[ntnttalksnothing]

Day 3: Supernatural, Prompt: Modern Cultivators

No, but hear me out. If modern samurais and ninjas can be Sentai/Power Rangers, so can modern cultivators.

[synnefo-nefeli]

Polyship Roadtrip as King and his Prince Consorts headcanons

And also about that time, Prince Consort Prompto, became Regent of Lucius:

Some set up:

After the sun’s back and the Kingdom of Lucius is rebuilding, Noct decides for once in his life he’s going to be selfish and pull rank- he tells the counsel (a fair amount did survive or at least their heirs did) that he’s marrying his boyfriends. “It’s the worst kept secret, you all know we’ve been together since I was 18...fuck if I ever do a politically arranged marriage again”

* It is a bit unorthodox- not the King having multiple consorts- Ignis found an old law regarding the ancient Kings of Lucius who had multiple partners, so there is precedence.

What *is* unorthodox is that the consorts are also the King’s Hand, the King’s Shield (head of Lucius’ army), and Prompto who will one-day succeed Cor as Marshal.

* There is surprisingly little pushback and an amicable agreement of what Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto can and cannot do as both consort and their official counsel positions/capacities in the Crownsguard/ what happens if if any of the consorts become Regent.

* Essentially if there is a time when Noct must appoint a Regent, the order goes: Gladio (as his bloodline is as noble blood and ancient as Noct + his and Noct’s line have intermarried), Ignis, due to him being the Hand & as well of noble birth, and lastly Prom.

* If Gladio or Ignis are Regent, Prompto and Iris are their Shields. If Prom is Regent, Cor and Iris are the Shield.

* Being Regent only occurs if Noct is way from the capital or if he’s incapacitated. The only times when Gladio is Regent is when Noct is sick and cannot attend royal functions where the King or Regent’s capacity is required. All other times he’s with Noct as his Shield.

* The Regent capacity is more out of ceremony- The Regent presides over Counsel Meetings, rules in the King’s stead (but cannot order laws), attends functions on behalf of the Crown. Things do get tricky when the King is literally in bed with 1/2 the counsel, but Noct’s consorts are trusted.

* The Regency is marked by a “Crown passing ceremony”, which is self explanatory and is ended by a ceremony where the consort re-crowns Noct.

* Only Noct can sit on the throne. there are three smaller seats besides his throne for his consorts. Only if they are Regent, and ceremony demands it, can they sit on Noct’s throne.

So now that’s all out of the way let’s get to the time Prompto found himself as Regent.

* Prompto honestly never thought it would happen. He’s comfortable with doing Consort duties and appearances as they’re often extensions of his Crownsguard duties. What are the chances that Gladio or Iggy cannot be regent right?

* Well. Noct and Gladio have to attend a function at the Niff Border for a trade agreement so Noct passes his crown to Ignis. It’s quiet mostly at the capital. Just him and Ignis running to counsel meetings as the Regent and Regent’s Shield. Ignis doing work as the Hand and Prompto spending time with Cor and the Glaives. 

* He and Ignis retire back to their home ( I hc the Bros have a home in the residential neighborhoods (the few that we’re still standing) the Citadel; the Citadel is being used to house displaced Lucians, fire department and medical resources as Insomnia rebuilds its infrastructure + Noct wants to only be in the Citadel when he absolutely must) and they’re having a nice few days of enjoying each other’s company; have a date-night where Prompto, bless him, cooks. But Cor comes over to say that they must come back to the Citadel, Ignis is needed to preside over something.

* Turns out, Tenebrae needs help sort issues Ravus is having (oh yeah, Ravus is alive in this AU because he got done dirty too in the game); Tenebrae is on the verge of collapse because of infighting on Ravus’ council, Ravus pleads to Ignis to come as a neutral party as distant Tenebraen nobility, and help them restructure a new system

* Sooo Prom is crowned in the middle of the night by Ignis (with Noct and Gladio calling in on video), and Ignis is whisked off to a drop-ship with a kiss to Prom’s cheek and a “I’ll be back soon, you’ll be fine”.

* Prompto has to sleep in the Royal apartments alone, in the King’s chambers per tradition; he and Noctis spend the whole night texting, “what if I mess up?” “Prom you’re going to be fine” “what if I cause an international crisis?” “Prom, you’re Regent, there’s no way - you don’t have that power- and also you’re super smart. We’ll be home soon don’t worry. Just ride it out for a few days. One of us will be home soon”.

* The first few days are fine- no royal duties to attend to, so Prom sticks to his Crownsguard’s duties. He *does* have extra security around him via Cor and Iris but life is normal. After work he takes Iris shopping because he loves spoiling his little sister-in-law, and they just chill out together watching movies at night. 

His husbands all call to check in and they’re super pleased with how Prom’s handling stuff in the capital, “honestly, I’m not doing anything! Which is probably for the best.” He blushes through his husband’s encouragement.

* By day 8, no one is home and Prompto has to attend his first council meeting as Regent. He’s dressed in a simple raiment- one specifically made for such a situation. Black high-collared suit, a black and silver brocade half-cape, a sash that denotes his status as a consort but fringed with the silver patterned satin of the Crownsguard, and his consort’s circlet- a simple silver band with a horned decoration similar to Noct’s crown.

It’s stuffy and tight fitting and honestly now he understands why Noct chafes at wearing his, and why Ignis basically has to threaten Noct with vegetables to wear it. He spends the entire meeting longing for his Crownsguard uniform.

* A week into being Prince Regent, soon turns into WEEKS. Noct, Ignis and Gladio apologize...well, Noct and Gladio do, Ignis is (politely) frustrated with Prompto’s lack of confidence, “you are one of the Chosen King’s Prince Consorts and retainers, you helped save the world when the sun was gone, you lead dangerous supply and recovery missions into the heart of ruined Eos, you took down The Empire’s magitek operations...have some faith, Prompto. If anything, you pledged yourself to this duty when you married Noct. This is our lives now.”

* Prompto manages with Cor and Iris’ help and fortunately most of his Regent duties are behind closed doors...until “Remembrance Day”, the day of Insomnia’s fall. Noct has still not returned, in fact the Niff leaders want to hold a joint ceremony with Noct as a sign of apology for the tragety and for a sign of peace. Noct can’t say no. A similar ceremony is being held in Tenebrae to remember their fallen and to enforce Tenebrae’s alliance and peace treaty with Lucius. So it falls to Prom to lead the Remembrance Day ceremonies - both public and private in Insomnia.

* The first time since his Wedding Day, Prompto is dressed in his full formal Prince Consort raiment and is thrust into the public eye as Prince Regent Prompto.

* In the car to the Memorial Grounds, a spot that is slowly being constructed into a formal memorial to those who died in the Fall, Prompto is a mess of nerves. However when he steps up to the podium to give the address he prepared- and he did prepare it, and then tweaked it slightly with Cor and Ignis’ help, a calm comes over it and he delivers the address flawlessly. He holds his head high, while maintaining a solemn mood- and he doesn’t have to fake it, he *is* grieving in the inside. It seems like forever ago he was 20, naive and going out into the world for the first time; when his only cares were “am I good enough for Noct; am I meant to be besides them or am I only here because ‘I’m Noct’s friend’”, and figuring out this relationship between the four of them. He left Insomnia bold and brash, returned a week later to find it a smoking ruin, and then 10 years before they could finally return. Now he’s 34, married, a *prince consort* and a hero of Eos.

* He goes through the motions of the public ceremonies at the memorial, at the Insomnian temple. Visits reconstruction sites and lunches with the civilians who are working to rebuild their homes. He gets shy handshakes from a few children who are brought by their parents to meet him, and hugs from a few of the bolder kids...and despite Cor’s disapproving expression, Prompto does take a few photos with some of the teenagers eager to meet a Prince and an elite Crownsguard veteran.

* Afterwards Prompto is whisked back to the Citadel for the ceremonial Remembrance Day formalities.

 Prompto is nervous because this address, which is also televised, as it involves  him sitting on Noctis’ throne- Cor asks him why is he so nervous now. And Prompto is essentially like, “I don’t think some of them will like seeing a Niff sitting on The Throne...I know I’m Lucian by citizenship but I’m clearly not Lucian...heck, I can’t even pass for Tenebraen - which I think would be better for optics...considering that today,we’re remembering those who fell when The Empire betrayed the peace talks.”

And Cor just adjusts Noctis’ crown to sit nicely ontop Prompto’s head without obscuring Prompto’s Consort’s Crown and says , “If anyone of those people out there, hold judgement against you based solely on your appearance, rather than your character and all you’ve done for the realm, their lives during the dark, and their King...they are fools and not all loyal to The Lucian Crown and its protectors. You’re more Lucian than anyone of them- you may not have the look but you have the loyalty and honor. You have humble beginnings and a an even humbler heart....don’t you dare cry on me Argentum...now get out there and show them *why* the King married you and not one of their overly entitled brats”

* Prompto does pull himself together and walks head-high and poised enough that he can hear Ignis’ praises in his mind as he moves to take his seat on the throne

* This involves another address, this one written by Noctis but with a few of Prompto’s own remarks for the nobility and gathered officials of the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard.

*  Afterwards he attends a ceremony for the Kingsglaive, he lays a wreath of flowers of the memorial outside of their barracks as well as an Honor Sash at the spot where Nyx gave his last stand

* He dines with the Glaive, which is the most comfortable moment of his day as most of them are his friends and he can be more of himself.

* However he must have second dinner with the nobility. It’s a stuffier affair but blessedly Iris bails him out of there early as “the Prince has a family matter to attend to”. Iris doesn’t know what Prompto meant by this when he asked that “time for family” be built in, but she enforces it so Prompto can give the requisite parting pleasantries to his guests and leave.

* Regis and Clarus’ remains were recovered by the first surveyors into Insomnia after the Dawn, and were interred in the palace gardens that were mercifully not destroyed beyond hope and were back to full bloom after ten years without sun. The Lucian Royal Crypts where rulers and their consorts, who didn’t have tombs constructed for them, were too ruined for any new burials. There’s talk of after restoring them, that Regis will be moved there to be besides Noctis’ mother’s tomb. But for now, Regis, lies facing the sunset with his best friend. It’s gated so that only a few  enter this part of the gardens, but that doesn’t mean people haven’t turned the gates into a makeshift memorial for the “King who held the Wall”, placing flowers, notes, and small tokens against the fencing.

* In the quiet of dusk, away from the eyes of the public, Prompto takes two bouquets down to the private burial site, opens the gate with his key, and goes to visit with Regis and Clarus. He lays his flowers next the the ones that most likely Iris had laid earlier in the day.

* He tells them “thank you again for your sons” that he loves them and he hopes he’s doing an okay job at the “whole consort thing”. That he’s sorry Noct and Gladio aren’t here today but “they’re off making you both proud and making for a better future for everyone”; he’ll make sure they and Ignis visit first thing when they get back.

* Prompto doesn’t mind “talking” to his fathers- in-laws, he wishes they were around to see how much they’ve all grown. Besides, he no longer speaks to his adoptive parents- the last time he saw them was at the wedding ceremony and that’s because the wedding planner had guilted him into inviting them. Besides the few times he met and spent time with Regis, Prompto felt “like a son” in the way Ignis had describe his and the King’s own personal relationship.

* Prom leaves to finally take off his reignments and “actually eat something”. Maybe he and Iris could play a board game or he’d be able to catch one of his husbands on a video call. He totally misses that Cor’s been watching him the entire time from a bench underneath a tree- I mean it’s dark and all. Cor stands and smiles at the graves of his best friends, “Between him and Ignis, your sons are lucky. You’d be so proud of all of them.”

* Prompto eats small dinner and winds up passing out unceremoniously across the master bed in the royal apartments; Cor lets him sleep in as late as he wants. Prompto wakes up to the news that Ignis’ transport has just reached the Insomnia City Limits.

* Prompto practically stumbles out of bed, and throws clothes on, runs down the halls to the throne room with Noct’s crown clutched in his hand. He reaches the throne room practically disheveled-the crown warmed from his hot and sweaty hands to find, Ignis, Cor, and the royal officiant waiting. Ignis is quietly laughing while he kneels to accept the crown which Prompto practically jams into Ignis’ well coiffed head with a “thank the Six you’re back”.

* Ignis and Prompto walk arm and arm back to the royal apartments, “thank god that’s over!” “Was it really so bad, darling?” Prompto blushes and shakes his head, “Not really, but gods I was STRESSED, Iggy.”

* Ignis only smiles, “Oh? By the sound of thing I am hearing from private and public channels, Insomnia was quite dazzled by the ‘People’s Prince’, you must have done something right. Everyone is delighted by you and think you handled Remembrance Day with aplomb.’ Prompto just blushes as he and Ignis go in search of breakfast.

* Two days later Noct and Gladio arrive and things get back to normal. Gladio of course teases Prompto about him being “Insomnia’s newest celebrity...watch out Noct”, “he can have it,” Noct says as he kisses Prompto.

[sweetteaanddragons]

So I should be writing time travel AUs right now, but I wasn’t in the mood today. Let’s look at a travel AU of another sort:

The sea is vast, and Earendil’s boat is small upon it. Elwing flies on and on and never sees him. The Silmaril gives her strength to fly on until she collapses, alone, on the beaches of Aman.

Ulmo returns her to her human state. The moment he does, Elwing breaks with sobs for all the lost: her children, her husband, and her brothers, so long ago. So many people have vanished, never to return.

Then she picks herself up and marches toward what she hopes is civilization.

Earendil sails desperately. He knows what fate eventually awaits his family if he fails.

But he cannot sail forever. The warning in his heart and the state of their supplies agree; they must return.

Before they even reach the shore, it is apparent that they have come too late.

The city is burned. Dead. From the looks of things, it has been for months now.

They all search for their families, but the search is in vain. Even the dead have been cleared away.

Only one group of elves remains that would do that, so, with heavy hearts, they return to the boat and head for the Isle of Balar.

Earendil listens to Gil-Galad’s account of what befell the Havens. “And my wife?” he asks, his hands holding with a white knuckle grip to the back of the chair he refused to sit down in. “My sons?”

“Survivors report seeing a woman with a blazing gem fall from your tower,” Gil-Galad says quietly.

She could not have been pushed; the sons of Feanor would have claimed the gem first if that had been the case. Earendil chooses to believe she fell. If she jumped . . . 

His wife is more Elf than Man. It is likely she will fall under the fate of the Elves, and it is said Mandos will not release those slain by their own hand. He has to believe she fell. It so easily could have happened. If the Feanorians had approached her with drawn swords, she would have retreated, and it would have been easy to forget her surroundings and retreat too far.

Yes. That must be what had happened.

“My sons?” he croaks.

“They were not among the fallen, and we looked long. We believe they are still alive,” Gil-Galad assures him.

“But you do not have them.”

Gil-Galad hesitates. “No.”

Then the sons of Feanor hold them. 

They must. They must still hold them. They cannot have taken them only to abandon them in the woods like his wife’s brothers. They cannot have grown weary of fearful, crying children and abandoned them. They cannot have decided there was not enough food to go around in the cold winter months.

Please, he begs the Valar, please, whatever pity remains in their hearts, let it have been enough for this. Let it hold just a little longer.

“Where were the Feanorians last seen?” he asks.

“You cannot mean to go after them,” Gil-Galad says. “Well do I understand the urge, but you have responsibilities here.”

“You do not understand,” Earendil says flatly. “They are not your sons. You are handling the people well enough. I have no confidence that the sons of Feanor are showing the same concern for my sons. Where are they?”

Gil-Galad has little more than rumor. Earendil nods his head and goes to prepare to depart.

His companions each have at least one member of their family that yet lives, so Earendil insists that they remain behind. He goes alone.

The search is long and hard. He has only rumor to follow, and little enough of that. The search drags on four years before he at last catches the trail.

He has no men with him to attack the camp, even if he dared with his sons still inside it. Instead, he continues to trail after them, trusting the forest to hide him.

Fortune favors him. He has been following for only a few days when an opportunity comes.

He has stopped beside a pool that has not yet fallen to Morgoth’s foul poison when the laughter of children suddenly rings through the woods.

Earendil’s head whips toward the sound.

A moment later, two young boys burst from the trees. The pool must have been their goal, but they freeze when they see him.

“Elrond,” he says hoarsely. “Elros.”

It has been so long since he has seen them that he is ashamed to admit to himself that he doesn’t know which is which.

The boys back away from him, fear evident in their eyes.

“It’s alright,” he says, rising slowly. “It’s alright, you’re safe now.” He steps forward.

That’s when an elf in Feanorian red bursts from the trees. Earendil draws his sword without another thought. “Behind me!” he shouts, but the boys don’t listen.

There is a stranger with the twins, and he has drawn a sword. That’s really all Maglor needs to know to draw his own. “Back to the camp, now!” he shouts. This section of woods is safe enough, and far better for them to run through it alone towards safety than to linger here in whatever strange trap the Enemy has left.

The twins vanish, and he feels a moment of relief. At ten, they are starting to insist that they are old enough not just to be trained but to participate in fights, and Maglor has no intention of allowing it.

That’s all he has time to think before the stranger is upon him.

The stranger is an elf, he realizes quickly as they duel, and he does not bear the marks of thralldom on him. 

Not, of course, that an elf would have to be a thrall to hate a son of Feanor.

Still, Maglor tries to reason with him when the battle leaves him enough breath. “Peace! Why should we do the Enemy’s work for him?”

“You stole my sons,” the elf growls, and -

Oh.

Maglor stumbles at this unexpected piece of information, and Earendil takes full advantage of the opportunity to knock him to the ground and swing his sword down towards Maglor’s throat.

“No!” twin voices cry, and Maglor watches in horror as the twins, having lingered after all, launch themselves out of the trees with their daggers in hand.

Earendil flinches, sword automatically moving away from Maglor towards the noise, but he is not half-prepared for this as Maglor is. He will not react in time.

If Maglor lets those blows land, it will be the worst thing he has ever done.

He launches himself between them, and the twins cannot halt themselves in time. One blade lodges in his upper arm. The other grazes his side. They at least managed to turn their blades away.

He ignores the pain. “Peace,” he tells them. “Peace. You have no enemies here.”

“He was about to kill you,” Elros argues, glaring warily at Earendil, blade still in his hand. “Elrond?”

Elrond is already at work, examining the wounds with horrified eyes, putting pressure on the graze and having enough sense not to yet remove the blade in his shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says firmly, and considering his own glare at Earendil, that’s as much a threat as it is a promise.

Maglor twists around as best he can. Earendil is staring at them all like he doesn’t understand what just happened, as well he might. Maglor is still reeling from the sudden turn himself.

But it is definitely Earendil. Maglor recognizes a bit of Idril in his face, and he has a strong resemblance to his sons. Even aside from this, he has the distinctive look of a Peredhel.

This is good, Maglor tells himself firmly, and tries to ignore the sudden urge to weep.

He turns his back to Earendil in the hopes that the other man won’t stab him in the back while the children look on and tries to smile for the twins. They should be happy, and he will not ruin this for them. “I told you your father would come for you,” he says, striving for lightness. 

Both of the twins’ eyes go wide.

Elros recovers first. “Yes, and then Maedhros told you that we were too old for comforting lies. He was right. What’s really going on?”

From the corner of his eye, Maglor can see Earendil flinch.

Fortunately, Elrond seems to believe him. “You visited once when we were very small,” he says tentatively. “You brought something.”

“Little toy boats,” Earendil whispers. “I carved them myself.”

Elros’s mouth drops open before he closes it with a snap. His eyes are too bright. “Why did you attack us then?” he demands.

Maglor intercedes quickly. “I am certain his quarrel was with me, not with you.” He pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the pain. Earendil’s eyes flicker between him and the children, plainly unable to look away from either the threat or his family.

“Did mother come too?” Elrond asks in a small voice.

Earendil’s breath catches, and the grief in his eyes turns to fire as he glares at Maglor. “You didn’t tell them?” he demands.

“He didn’t have to tell us,” Elros says. “We were there.” His accusatory voice leaves a clear implication about others who were not. “We saw her turn into a bird - “

“What?” Earendil looks incredulously from his sons to Maglor like he’s expecting some hint that this is a lie Maglor has cooked up to placate them, but Elrond is nodding along.

“A white one,” he adds helpfully. “We thought she would fly back through the window for us, but she flew out to sea instead.” He frowns. “We thought she was going to find you. Is that not what happened?”

“No,” Earendil manages, clearly still not sure what to believe.

Maglor doesn’t blame him.

“So mother’s not coming back,” Elros says. He tries to sound uncaring, but his voice catches. “Are you staying this time?”

“Yes,” Earendil says. “I swear to you - “

“No oaths!” the twins shout in the unison of long practice. 

To his credit, Earendil barely pauses. “I give you my word, I will not leave you willingly again.”

The twins look at each other. After a moment of private communication, they nod.

Maglor tries to tell himself his heart is not sinking. This is for the best. This was always the plan, to give up the children should it ever be safe to do so. That they are almost the sole light left in his life does not matter. That he loves them as if they were his own does not matter. They are not his.

“Everything else can wait until we’re back at camp then,” Elrond decides. 

Earendil looks relieved. Maglor quietly starts to back away.

“We should hurry so that you can get your shoulder looked at,” Elrond adds, looking guiltily at Maglor.

Earendil and Maglor both freeze.

“He’s coming with us?” Earendil asks warily.

“Of course he is,” Elros says in some confusion. “It’s his camp too, and there’s no sense in the four of us heading there separately.”

Maglor and Earendil look at each other. The moment hangs somewhat awkwardly.

“I believe your father meant to take you back to his camp,” Maglor finally manages to say.

Elrond frowns at his father. “I know you may have things to gather, but surely it can wait until Maglor is tended to?”

And with yet another sinking feeling, Maglor surveys the confusion present on both of their faces and realizes that the twins truly do not understand.

It’s Earendil’s job to explain, he decides, swaying a little. Rations have been short, and his have been shorter as he has given up as much as he dares to make sure the twins will have enough, and the blood loss has destroyed this delicate balance.

Elrond notices and is at his side in an instant. 

“It’s this way,” Elros tells his father before darting ahead to lead the way into the trees.

As he passes, Maglor catches a familiar glint in Elros’s eyes, and with sudden suspicion he looks down into Elrond’s too innocent face.

He is beginning to suspect the twins understand after all, but at the moment, neither he nor Earendil is in much position to argue their far more reasonable points.

[shipping-goggles]

“Some Sort of Neighborly” (7/11) | Once Upon a Time

Title: Some Sort of Neighborly - (7/11) Fandom: Once Upon a Time Rating: M Genre: Romance/Humor Words: 3,232/26,824 Completed: 01/30/2017 Summary: Modern!AU Captain Swan. They're not neighbors, not exactly, and they're not friends either. It's pretty hard to find reasons to bump into the woman who lives next door to your best friend, especially after your only interaction with her has been waking up on her couch one Saturday morning. Sequel to Rude Awakening.

We’re nearing the final stretch now! ;)

On AO3 here | On FF.net here | On Tumblr under "Read More"

Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 7

There’s a tupperware of cupcakes tucked into the back corner of Robin’s kitchen counter – one Killian’s sure as hell he didn’t bake himself.

“What are these?”

Robin twists from the fridge to glance over his shoulder, his gaze following the path of Killian’s soapy fingers. He’s not a conspiracy theorist, but he is familiar enough with the Locksley household to know that most of the sweets are kept well out of sight of a certain three-and-a-half-foot-tall preschooler. He’s also observant enough to know that Regina Mills deals solely in apple pastries, as, apparently, everything else she makes tastes like poison, and while he once wouldn’t have put it past her for that to have been an intentional move, something tells him she’s not quite as interested in murdering Robin today.

(That, he’s decided, is the full extent to which he’s interested in knowing about whatever the hell their relationship is now.)

“Cupcakes,” Robin says simply, turning back to continue rearranging the remnants of their meal. Roland’s voice carries with the sound from the television, an off-key nonsensical tune Killian swears he’s memorized by this point. “I forgot: Emma dropped them off. Said they were for you.”

“What?” He almost loses his grasp on the slippery plate in his hand, and he can tell without even seeing his face that Robin’s hiding a smirk. “When?” he demands. “Like hell you forgot.”

“Like hell you’re staying away from my next-door neighbor,” Robin shoots back. By the time he finally meets his gaze, Killian’s pretty sure he’s dripped soapy water all over the floor in front of the sink. “She said to tell you thanks,” he continues, crossing his arms across his chest. “What in blazes did you do to that poor woman?”

The slick surface of his friend’s dinnerware vanishes in favor of warm, soft fingers curled around his. That, however, is distinctly not the reason he feels his face prickle with heat.

“I’m sure you know as well as I do,” he snorts, shaking his head, “I haven’t got a chance of making Emma Swan say anything.”

“So why am I suddenly playing deliveryman to your cupcakes?”

“When did she drop them off?” Killian asks instead. He splashes the plate under the faucet, then props it up next to the others in the drying rack. A quick glance back at the tupperware tells him that she’d stuffed far too many inside (five, he counts, and then stifles his internal grin – one for him, each of the Locksleys, and Regina probably, the full breadth of people in his life she knows, but that still leaves one extra), that the thick white frosting has also been squished and mangled by the lid. The cupcake on the end bears the colorful mark of rainbow sprinkles.

“She came by earlier today,” Robin replies, and he hears the fridge door close behind him. “She also asked about the bar you play at.”

This time, he can’t help the laugh that bursts from his lips. “Did you tell her?”

“Why haven’t you?” A pause. “You love playing for people.” Killian has the feeling that observation was meant to be spoken in the past tense, with a name substituted instead of carefully generalized treading.

But he only continues rinsing the rest of the sink’s contents, as quickly as he feasibly can. “So you did?”

“Bloody hell,” Robin sighs. “I’m going to have to move when you properly muck this up, aren’t I?”

It’s an attempt at deflection – not from a proper answer, Killian knows, but from the weight of what had come close to mentioning. After all, the last time Milah had been discussed in this apartment, a generous supply of alcohol had been involved, along with a lot of cursing and mutual misery, courtesy of Regina Mills and her unfounded jealousy and horrible temperament. But something in his words has him irked for a different reason.

Dumping the sudsy contents of the last glass, Killian sets it carefully to dry, then turns around, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. “There’s nothing to muck up,” he says, with deliberate emphasis. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A tiny rivet forms between Robin’s dark brows. Roland’s giggle bursts to life from somewhere behind the couch, and it seems to take a moment longer than usual for understanding to trickle through the space of the kitchen between them. “You really care for her, don’t you?”

Killian snorts, pressing his lips together. If only to hide his expression (regardless of whether, according to David, the answer would be obvious either way), he swivels around to grab the tupperware in one smooth motion. “I’m going to go thank her for these,” he says. The rich scent of chocolate wafts upward when he cracks the lid open and excavates two of the cupcakes from their prison (though he leaves the one with the sprinkles) – they certainly smell homemade.

He hears Robin’s sigh, and then the call after him, heavy on the sarcasm: “Should I wait up for you?”

Killian doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. “I’m leaving my jacket here, you wanker.”

Admittedly, the hallway outside is draftier than he’d expected, so maybe he should have chosen a different kind of assurance: the chill cuts right through his thin t-shirt as he makes the short trek down to 3B. He tells himself that’s the reason he’s so thankful for how quickly she answers the door after he knocks.

But he learns even faster that he doesn’t have grounds in the slightest to complain about his lack of proper clothing.

“Hey,” Emma says, her mouth tilting in a surprised smile. His eyes flicker downward without his permission, caught by the movement of her rocking back on the heels of her bare feet – bare, bare, up to the tiniest pair of pajama shorts, nearly engulfed by the size of the red sweatshirt she’s pulling down her arms.

“Hey.” He has to swallow after that single choked word, but, luckily, she spares him the embarrassment, her gaze zeroing in on the cupcakes balanced in his hand with amused precision.

“I swear, if those taste weird, I didn’t lace them with anything.”

He bites back a grin and struggles to remember the reason he’s here. The desire to make a fool of himself instead is astounding. “You didn’t have to do this, love.”

“You didn’t have to do what you did, either,” she replies with a shrug. “So I guess we’re even.”

Again, the heat of her hand in his flares a phantom of a tingle through the nerves of his fingers – a quiet murmur in the arch of this very doorway. Killian, thank you.

He should be so lucky to hear her speak his name like that again.

“Not every appreciable action needs to be tangibly repaid,” he tells her at last. But her lovely green eyes only narrow.

“Were you late that day, by the way?”

It takes him a moment to realize her meaning. “To my performance?” he chuckles. “No, I wasn’t late. Though, on a related note, I did hear you’ve been asking certain people some very interesting questions regarding my professional life.

The blush spreads like a stain across her pale skin. “Stupid rumors through the grapevine, huh?”

“Something like that.” She only fixes him with a perfectly innocent look until he gives up and asks, “Well, did he tell you?”

“I don’t know,” she replies lightly. Her tight-lipped smile doesn’t even try to hide its serene secrecy, which only confirms his suspicions. “Why don’t you try asking Robin?”

“I can’t believe my closest friend and his neighbor are conspiring against me,” he mutters.

She laughs. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, you know. But if you’re going to keep stalling, you should just—” She takes a step back from the doorway, giving him room to step inside. “It’s freezing.”

“Poor choice of attire will do that to you,” he says, though he doesn’t mean that descriptor in the slightest.

The warmth of her apartment is a welcome reprieve, even if he only shuffles to the spot in her foyer he’d occupied last time, his back against the wall across from where she’d sat. He feels the hard press of the ring beneath his shirt, its smooth edges between his fingers – but also the curve of the duckling mug, the taste of whipped cream sweet on his tongue. He’d used tap water and the chalky packaged mix he’s never really cared for, but he swears it was the best hot chocolate he’s ever had.

“What are you watching?” he asks, peering at her television. Rather than DVRed children’s cartoons, she seems to have some brightly-colored cooking show blaring quietly on the far screen.

“Uh. Food Network.” After she shuts the door behind them, she stands at his side, her hands shifting to her hips as if in defiance. “How else was I supposed to have learned how to bake?”

Seventeen years. That’s how long I was in the system. “Had I known you’d acquired your cooking skills from television, I’d never have allowed you to help with the cookies for Roland’s bake sale.”

“Liar.” When he turns to her, though, there’s a glimmer of humor in her eye. “We both know those cookies sold out. And besides, it doesn’t even look like you’ve even tried those cupcakes.”

“Not yet,” he admits. He shifts one to his free hand and holds it out to her skeptical gaze.

“I already told you I didn’t lace them.”

“You made one extra.”

“No, I didn’t,” she tells him, with a touch too much defense.

“Then I suppose Robin will have to miss out.” He brandishes the cupcake more firmly in her direction, unable to contain his amusement at her stern expression, until she just rolls her eyes.

“Why,” she begins, her fingertips brushing his as she finally takes it, “does it seems like I’m always dealing with baked goods when it comes to you?”

“Sweets for the sweet?” he suggests, and relishes the sound of fond exasperation that escapes her mouth – a half-chuckle, half-sigh. “If you’d like to move away from baked goods, though, I would not be unopposed to dinner instead.”

Her lips press together in a thin pink line, twitching as though she’s trying very hard not to laugh. Finally, she says, “Why don’t we start with these cupcakes and take it from there?”

Emma leans back into the cushions behind her, narrowing her eyes. Her hair is a mess, she’s not wearing actual pants (again), and her fingers are sticky with frosting, but, at the moment, the only thing she cares about is her admittedly impressed disbelief.

“No.”

“You asked.”

“You’re lying,” she insists, but he only shrugs and picks away at another chunk of his cupcake, amusement flitting through his gaze like the sun on water. “You do not know how to make fucking bombe Alaska.”

“The only tricky part is setting it on fire,” he hedges, as if that’d help.

“That’s the only hard part about it.”

“Then I suppose I’m just about as proficient at making bombe Alaska as you are, love.”

She shakes her head. “What, did you learn how to make it in France, too?” It’s a sarcastic jibe, but his silence in response, the way his lips twist into a crooked smile, is more than telling. “What the hell?” she demands. “Who are you?”

“I used to travel a lot,” he admits, sheepishness tinging the tips of his ears in a way that doesn’t need a critical eye to spot. This information she files away into the back of her mind, where she keeps everything else she knows about Killian Jones – and, it seems, that might not be very much at all. At the very least, she supposes, given that reaction, she can place it right beside his unwillingness to allow her to hear him perform.

(She doesn’t want to use too much scrutiny at all right now, to be honest, because if she did, she knows that several things happening here would be highly suspect. The fact that she’d gone ahead and plopped herself down right beside him on the same couch, despite her lack of clothing and much-needed plans for a quiet night alone, doesn’t even rank – and that’s the worst part about it.)

He looks comfortable as ever in her living room, planted squarely where his ass had also been the night he’d spent, unaware, in her apartment. She tries to salvage the fraying ends of her concentration. “I guess it’s easier when everything on that side of the pond is so close together,” she says finally, deciding to throw him a bone.

“Er.” Despite his cupcake-covered hands, he makes to reach behind his ear before he catches himself. “I actually didn’t start until after I arrived here.” And then, in response to her off-guard frown, in a voice that sounds just the slightest over-detached: “Milah loved to travel.”

Milah. She thinks of the ring he’d held between his fingers like a prayer, the way his eyes had clouded over with the memory of his admissions as he sat across from her on the floor. Even now, the smile on his face dims, and while she wants to say that’s the reason something in her chest twinges at the name she can finally put to his heart, assuming she’s reading him properly – even she can’t manage to make that lie sound real.

So, instead, she says, “Tell me about her.”

His blue eyes capture hers in a slow blink. “About Milah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You must have loved her a lot.” It’s a stupid answer, an obvious one that doesn’t really explain anything at all, but she locks her jaw and holds her ground, unwilling to acknowledge the word that should have come at the beginning: because.

He counters with a strange look, and he seems to bite his tongue as he considers her.

I want to know you.

Finally, when he speaks, his words are slow with deliberate attention, spoken after a silence that feels like one long, apprehensive sigh.

“Milah was a free spirit,” he says. “She was bold. Adventurous. Like a gale that never stopped to take a breath.” He pauses, watching her with a serious look, distant but careful. “I think you would have gotten along quite well with her.”

She wants to ask. What happened?

“She sounds a lot like you.”

He cocks his head, the corners of his mouth tilting, and she wishes it would brighten the rest of his expression, too. “You think so?”

“I don’t know about that last part, about getting along,” she says with her best attempt at a coy shrug, “but I can’t think of many people who regularly go climbing up fire escapes and breaking into their friends’ apartments.”

“Those next-door to their friends,” he corrects her.

“And what do you call getting me to pick Robin’s lock for you?”

“A neighborly favor, of sorts.”

She only rolls her eyes, taking another bite of her cupcake. Even without Mary Margaret’s help, they’d turned out halfway decent, she’d been surprised to discover – just as she’s surprised at the way the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away now, as he licks his lips around the smile he finally returns without, apparently, even realizing it. Her bare feet are freezing, but the sight of it alone affords her more than enough warmth.

That’s why she probably shouldn’t be surprised at all by the words he speaks when he continues.

“For everything that Milah was, however,” he says, slowly, “there was something she was decidedly not.”

It feels like a trap. She almost expects his eyes to twinkle, like he’s ready to heft her an ambush of a smirk and turn it into some stupid flirty joke now that he’s got her attention – and, maybe, something in her wants him to. But she still hesitates when she asks, “And what was that?”

The way he’s looking at her – it’s like she’s something precious, not fragile but breakable all the same, which makes it all the more ridiculous that she feels her pulse skip in the way that she’s known in getting ready for a fight. At last, he says, “She wasn’t someone who made me want to be better.”

She wants to drop her eyes to her lap again. She wants to deflect. She doesn’t want to think about that hard drive and lock pick set in her closet, and how, for the first time since she’d buried them there, shaking with anger and something that had no place in her heart after she’d turned eighteen, she’d actually considered digging them out and throwing them into the trash where they belonged, after she’d finished washing both the duckling and pirate mugs from that afternoon.

Forward instead of backward. Neal never would have said something like that. He’d have clung to his demons until the day he died, and, being with him, she knows she’d have drowned in the commiseration, have continued doing the same – had he not tired of her and left before she could realize what had happened. Sentimentality might be an addiction, but she refuses to let it bind her in place.

She’s better off for it, too.

“You have… uh.” There’s a wisp of frosting smudged at the corner of his mouth, one that she probably shouldn’t be pointing out instead of mustering up a response, and yet – maybe there are some steps forward that feel more like strides, her chest wrung tight, her blood skittering thick with an understanding she’s not in a state of mind to fully process.

She gestures, but his sticky fingers only make the smudge worse. His tongue darts out in the wrong place, and she spends longer than she probably should watching where it’d disappeared.

“Did you think I was going to say you?” She stares at him, at the way his lips curl with soft amusement even as he rubs the back of his hand against his lips. “When said there was something Milah wasn’t. You suspected I’d have said you, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” she says flatly, and she reaches forward to wipe the frosting off of his mouth with the pad of her thumb.

He tenses at her touch, smile freezing in place, but his lips are smooth, yielding. She can feel the breath he sucks in as she moves, and she wants to linger there, feel the warmth of it as it leaves him – but, before she can, she pulls back, and it’s over. Stray frosting secured. Arrogant idiot successfully quieted.

She looks up to meet his gaze now, and she swears his eyes have flickered into a darker, burnished blue, like plunging headfirst into a fathomless pool without breathing.

He’s still far too close.

Curling her fingers, tucking the ghost of his skin into her palm, she leans back into the couch again, and the air rushes back into her lungs the moment her shoulders hit cushion and he finally blinks with long, dark lashes. There’s something dazed in his expression, as though he’s having trouble looking at her directly.

She knows the feeling.

“Are you always this messy an eater?” she asks with a frown.

“Only when I can request assistance,” he says cheekily, but she finds she can’t blame him in the slightest.

Not one bit.