#This song made me so sad about 4x08/4x09

[imminent-danger-came]

more music stuff but the song Solitary Confinement by Everybody's Worried About Owen is so so either MK or Wukong 

So send your condolence cards Thinking I've been held against my will It's better, you believing I'm fighting for some greater good, I know I know that I believe in nothing And that I like being alone I like being alone And there is bliss in solitary Isn't it sobering? And there is bliss in solitary Isn't it sobering? And there is fear in solitary Isn't it sobering? And there is pain in solitary Isn't it sobering?

(Link)

Speaking to my MK's complacency loving heart

[spartanguard]

footprints

Just a bit of holiday fluff (with a bit of whump) inspired by “Footprints” by the Barenaked Ladies (awesome song from my favorite holiday album by my favorite band).

I hope you all have/had wonderful holidays with your families, and sending you love and warm wishes for the new year! I love you all!!!

Summary: Killian finds himself on the outside looking in (again) sometime between 4x08 and 4x09. But it’ll be okay. What’s a bit of snow when your heart is missing and the woman you love has been chasing a villain?  | rated F for fluff | 2.5k | AO3

One moment, dusk was settling over an unusually quiet Storybrooke—most evenings had been, ever since the Ice Queen’s presence had been made known. Which was probably a good thing, because the next, snow was coming down in droves, almost instantly blanketing the dockside bench Killian had been brooding on.

(Yes, brooding—he was well aware of the immaturity of his present activity, staring out at the graying horizon and sipping from his flask. But what else was one to do when his heart was in the possession of his mortal enemy and his girlfriend—as equally juvenile as that term seemed—was off chasing the villain of the week?)

It took him far too long to notice that his trousers were starting to soak through as the flakes fell on the dark denim and melted, but most sensory things like that had become more and more muted the longer he went without his heart. Perhaps that was a hidden blessing, given the current unpredictable climate.

Despite that, he supposed he should probably seek shelter somewhere—he could easily get to Granny’s before this got any worse. But more importantly, he should make sure Emma had done the same; knowing her, she was still traipsing about town in search of Ingrid.

(She’d invited him along, much to his awful chagrin, and he’d had to come up with some thin excuse to decline the invitation lest, even worse, he be called away by the Crocodile in the middle of things. He was trying not to take Emma’s obvious disappointment personally but, per usual, was failing; thus, the rum.)

Taking one last, long pull of booze in a vain attempt to warm himself—though if it had any affect, he was only faintly aware—he then pocketed the flask and stood, brushing off the snow where it had piled on his shoulders, and headed back toward the town centre.

It seemed as though most people had already been inside when the storm hit as the sidewalks and streets were coated with the smoothest sheet of snow he’d seen since arriving in this realm, completely untouched by humans nor vehicles. Really, his only guiding point in the frozen tempest was the warm, bright light in front of Granny’s, so he followed the beacon until he could decide what to do next.

The decision was made for him when he saw the lone set of footprints leaving the diner: a smallish set of imprints made by treaded boots that he immediately recognized as Emma’s. They’d spent far too much time tracking through snow and mud together; he’d recognize those indentations and that gait anywhere. Judging by how far apart they were, and how sharp, he could tell they were recent—and she’d been in a frustrated hurry.

Given that the fast-falling snow hadn’t yet covered them up, that meant she was likely still outside—and, knowing her, likely trying to find Ingrid. So he headed off, having no choice now but to follow alongside the steps to make sure his stubborn princess wouldn’t freeze to death while likely saving everyone’s arses; she’d already almost done that once.

He quickly fell into step with her, despite her being an unknown distance ahead. Still, were someone to observe just their footprints, his larger ones next to hers, perfectly in sync, they might suppose they’d been side by side. With as close as he was staying to her trail, lest he lose it, there might even be the suggestion of being hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm; they hadn’t been quite so public with their relationship as of yet, but the idea of someday still made him smile.

Until a phantom pain gripped his hollow chest cavity, drawing a sharp gasp and stopping him in his tracks. It happened periodically; he wasn’t sure if the Dark One did it on purpose as a reminder or if it was incidental to his heart jostling around in a coat pocket. Another thing he’d learned to brush off, citing heartburn from Granny’s food (and earning the old wolf’s ire but that could be dealt with later, assuming he survived this ordeal).

The weight of his unknown fate resettled on him as he took off again. Based on his knowledge of the stars, the celestial event Rumpelstiltskin was waiting for was still a few days away, but that was all he knew for sure. Being unable to plan ahead more than an hour at a time and having little control over his life wasn’t a feeling he was remotely comfortable with.

But he could control this—he could ensure Emma was safe and warm, and his own piece of mind at the same time.

The storm raged on as he continued. His gaze was so focused on Emma’s prints that he wasn’t paying attention to the landmarks around him, not until he realized he was on the same street she lived. Sure enough, the steps were leading him to the loft. He let out a grateful sigh and hurried ahead, watching as the echo of her steps ran right to the front door of the building.

Some instinct had him reaching for the door knob once he hit the landing, but he forced himself to stop short; this wasn’t the right time for a social visit, as much as he found himself craving company (which was an equally odd emotion he hadn’t felt in some years; how strange that other feelings dimmed without his heart in place, yet nearly foreign ones managed to resurface).

Instead, he backed away, crossing the empty street and then looking up. A warm glow came from all the windows in the building, but the Charming’s loft seemed to be the brightest—though it might have had something to do with the blonde head he could see in the living room window. He could only see her back where she sat on the sofa, but from the way she was sitting, knew she was likely helping Henry with homework while enjoying her cocoa and cinnamon.

In the next window, he could make out Snow with the young prince held against her chest, her swaying motion suggesting she was lulling him to sleep. And David was no doubt hovering over the entire space, making sure everyone was safe.

He smiled. Emma had denied herself that kind of comfort and happiness for far too long. Though it had been centuries since he’d felt anything similar, he hadn’t forgotten what it felt like—that kind of warm familial love and trust, and he hoped beyond hope that she was no longer taking it for granted.

That deeply buried part of him started to ache the longer he watched the family, much like it had when his lips were cursed and he had to force himself to stay away. (What was with this town’s villains and their obsession with the parts of him used to show affection?) And much like then, he knew his distance was twofold: mainly to keep them safe from any dangerous puppetry that he was unwillingly being conscripted into; but also because he knew it was his own damn fault for being put into such perilous positions and, frankly, he didn’t deserve that kind of peace. But Emma did.

He lost track of how long he was outside watching in, the snow still falling around him and filling in both Emma’s footprints and his own, but he was oblivious to the world outside the small circle illuminated by the street lamp above and the view he had of the Charming home. It wasn’t until he was swaying on his feet, instinctively reaching for the lamppost to maintain balance, that he became aware of encroaching drowsiness.

It was that same sluggish feeling that usually accompanied too much rum and made his blood slow in his veins, even though he thought he was completely sober. But he still found himself unable to remain upright, falling to his knees in the piling drifts and struggling to keep his eyes open.

Was this some other trick of the Crocodile’s? Or was he truly that unaware of how much he’d imbibed? Either way, he somehow managed to prop himself against the post before his eyes shut again. The last thing he remembered seeing was the light coming on in Emma’s bedroom window, and then everything went black—but at least she was okay.

The next thing he knew, he was being brutally shaken awake—at least, it seemed violent; it might have been gentle, but was jarring nonetheless.

“Killian?” a panicked voice called out; it sounded familiar, but he couldn’t get his eyes open to place it. “Killian, answer me!”

He tried to move but it felt like he was frozen in place. Everything was cold and numb.

“Killian, you can’t do this to me again!” The voice sounded so sad; he wanted to help her, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate.

“God, he’s nearly covered in snow,” a male voice added, and Killian was vaguely aware that he was being jostled, but more mildly this time.

Snow...oh, right, the storm, and...Emma.

Despite the lag in the rest of his body, his eyes shot open when everything came back to him—and the sight before him both broke his missing heart and made it soar, wherever it was.

Emma hovered above him, hands cupping his cheeks and tears brimming her eyes beneath the knit hat she’d hastily thrown on. But she looked radiant—angelic, almost, with the halo of light from the streetlamp glowing on the melted drops of snow on her cap. Flakes landed in her golden hair and glinted like fairy lights. No wonder the Snow Queen was after her; she looked beautifully in her element here, save for the worried furrow of her brow.

“H-hey, beautiful,” he managed to stutter out.

Her face relaxed, but only a bit. “Killian? What are you doing out here?” A tear was dangerously close to falling on that perfect cheek.

“D-don’t cry, Swan,” he stammered, and managed to free a hand to reach for her face, but fell short. “Don’t wanna...f-freeze your eyes shut.” Even frozen solid as he was, deflection was always his preferred front.

She choked on a sob. “Seriously? Your lips are the same color as your eyes and you’re telling me to be careful?” Anger quickly replaced her fear. “What the hell were you thinking, Killian? You should have been inside!”

“H-had to make sure you were okay,” he admitted, not having the energy anymore to lie. “Not off...ch-chasing the witch.”

“That’s no reason to risk your life. You’re freezing; how are you not dead?”

He let out a shallow chuckle at that; he suspected this was truly the lone perk to not having his heart. “Don’t think I c-could right now.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. You’re not as immortal as you think, buddy.” He fatalistically snorted at that. “Come on; we need to get you inside.” She rubbed her mittened hands on his cheeks and then shifted to grab under his arm. David suddenly appeared to take the other one as they hauled him to his feet, thus explaining the male voice he’d heard; odd how such familiar things sound foreign when one’s faculties are out of sorts. It felt like his legs were miles away, but he managed to get them underneath him, and they began the slow trek to the building.

“Next time, just knock, Hook,” David muttered once they reached the door. “No need to play the hero from afar.”

Hero. He wanted to scoff but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate. That was far from a fair description of him, but he didn’t have the drive to protest. So he settled on, “Didn’t want to...intrude.”

“Hey,” Emma told him as they took the stairs. “You’re only intruding if you’re not welcome, and you’re far from that. You’re one of us now; got it?”

If he wasn’t actually half frozen, that statement alone would have done the trick. He supposed he shouldn’t be so shocked, but knowing it and hearing it were two different things. There was still snow caught in his hair and his toes were still numb, but Emma had just done a fair job of warming the gaping hole in his chest. “Aye, love; I do.”

In an echo of a scene not two weeks prior, Killian became the one under blankets in the loft, being doted on by Emma, with Henry being the heroic provider of the space heater as he was forced into residence on the sofa previously occupied the other two.

“I mean it, Killian,” Emma told him as she stroked her fingers through his hair; his scalp (and most of him, really) prickled painfully as sensation returned, but her touch felt too divine to stop her. “We’re here for you. I’m here for you—always.”

And that cozy feeling he’d been missing earlier came roaring back; his cheeks practically burned with blush. He may not have his heart, and may face an unknown fate, but at the very least, it appeared he’d found something of a family again.

The snow was coming down at a fast pace again, but not due to any magical means; just an average winter storm for Maine. Killian watched it fall, this time from the safe, warm perch of the bay window in the home he shared with Emma. Given all that had happened in the few years since they took on the Snow Queen—so many unfathomable highs and lows—it was still a bit hard to believe that this was where he was.

“She’s down, finally,” Emma said softly as she came down the stairs, drawing his attention away from the snowglobe outside. Ethereally beautiful, as always she was, but even more so in the unique light coming from the lit hearth and the lights on the Christmas tree. She sidled up to him and he instinctively wrapped his arm around her. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Nothing important,” he answered, turning his full attention to her. “And nothing so picturesque as what’s in my arms.” Motherhood had softened her features a bit, but had only enhanced her looks as far as he was concerned. How could he be anything but irrevocably in love with the woman who brought into the world the equally magnificent, darling baby girl who was asleep in the nursery upstairs? (Just the most recent item on the list of many, many times she’d rocked his world and saved his life in some way or another.)

“You’re so cheesy,” she teased, but he could see the blush as she leaned into him. Once, he never thought he’d be so lucky to have this—a love, a family (nor such a large, happy one as he had now)—and yet, here he was, living happily ever after with all he could ever need and more. He could still remember the ice in his limbs that one cold night as all his feelings of isolation manifested in that lonely, frozen snow drift, and the almost painful warmth when they brought him inside, physically and metaphorically.

“Thank you, Emma,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For letting me in.”

She hugged him tighter. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

He placed a tender kiss against her crown as they continued to watch the snow come down, safe and warm—together.

tagging some awesome people: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @word-bug @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @flipperbrain @sherlockianwhovian @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells LOVE YOU ALL!!!!