#also!! i have no plans to neglect brick by brick or my prompts fics while this is being posted

[sunbrights]

fic: somewhere surely lived (1/14)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: fuyuhiko & peko are the main POV characters, and kuzupeko is the main endgame ship, but this sumbitch is a smorgasborg of characters and ships. there are 6 additional secondary ships that'll be ~special surprises~. side pairings won't be tagged, but the "relationship of the day" character will. rating: e (not all chapters have smut, but a fair number of them do) summary: Hope's Peak is not just a dating program; it's a guarantee. With the right compatible partner, the benefits are endless: boosted life expectancy, improved self-esteem, increased productivity, new opportunities, better overall work and life satisfaction. For society's elite, Hope's Peak makes finding that partner straightforward, if not easy.

It provides an Ultimate Match-- provided the participants are willing to go through its paces.

(AU based on the Black Mirror episode, "Hang the DJ.")

notes: Happy Valentine's week, friends! This fic is (almost) done and will (hopefully) be updated 3x a week between now and White Day (3/14) as a special lovey-dovey season gift from me to you!

read on AO3

2 WEEKS

“What?” she says. “That can’t be right. That’s barely any time at all.”

He taps the round, black face of his device again, but the number doesn’t change. Two weeks.

The server brings by pre-selected menu choices: poached salmon for him and parmesan risotto for her. He knew going in that the system was designed to automate as much as possible. (“Optimizing everyday decisions allows participants to focus their energy on developing their relationships,” his device had told him, after he booted it up the first time.) That doesn’t stop it from being fucking weird, having a plate slid in front of him without preamble.

He can’t find room to be pissed about it, though. The fish is cooked perfectly, exactly to his tastes. He can’t say he wouldn’t have picked it himself, if he’d been given the option; it just might’ve taken him longer to get there.

The girl is still focused on her device. She has it cupped in one hand, and is swiping through the different menu options. She’s pretty, he guesses; she has a narrow face and dark eyes, but also a short bob haircut that keeps her from looking too severe. He’s never really thought much about red hair on women... but apparently the system didn’t think much of it, either, if this is all the time it gave them.

“Usami,” she says, and it lights up to acknowledge her, “is it really only two weeks?”

“That’s right!”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do with that?” he snaps around his mouthful. The girl gives him a sour look.

“I’m sorry,” his device chirps from his elbow, “that question is too broad. Being specific helps me understand!”

“I think what he means,” she says, every word dripping with so much pointed disapproval that it makes him roll his eyes, “is why is it only two weeks?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“... Right.” She gives up, apparently; she sighs, and lets her wrist hang. He takes another bite.

“It’s rude to start eating before everyone else at the table, you know,” she tells him.

“You’ve got your food,” he says.

“That’s not the point! It’s…” She sighs again, and shoves the device back into her purse. “Nevermind. Let’s just start over, okay? I want to make the most of this. Two weeks or not.”

The main theme of all the literature surrounding Hope’s Peak had been that the system works if you let it. Nothing is superfluous, even if it seems like it is. Everything happens for a reason.

He swallows his bite, and leans back in the booth.

“... Fine.”

*

Mahiru is an amateur photographer following in her mother’s footsteps. It’s her first time in the system, too, and she’s about as sold on it as he is— which is to say, not quite. She offers him some of her risotto, and laughs when he refuses. “Big no to cheese, then,” she says, mixing the breadcrumbs into the rice. “Heard that one loud and clear.”

There’s a little, driverless cart waiting for them outside the restaurant when they’re finished. It pings both their devices when they get in, sets a navigation on its own, and takes them out into the sprawling grounds around the central hub.

They ride in silence, cold winter air whipping in from under the plastic shields. He puts his feet on the dash, and she sighs, loud enough that it barely even counts as passive-aggressive. He doesn’t put them back down.

The route delivers them to an isolated cottage on the western side of the grounds. It’s on the small side, just a main living area separated from what he assumes is a bedroom by a half-divider. There’s a nook of a kitchen tucked into the southeastern corner, and an automated fireplace in the middle. It’s clean and nicely furnished, inviting while still managing to stay practical.

Mahiru turns the corner into the bedroom. She stops short. “... Oh.”

He understands when he gets there. There’s only a single bed, made up in plush pillows and fluffy blankets. The bathroom hangs off the northern wall, separated by wide panes of lightly frosted glass.

The implication isn’t exactly fucking subtle.

“... I guess it’s understandable,” she says. “I mean, we are meant to be in a relationship. It’s just a little...”

“For two weeks?” he says. “Fuck that.” He plucks the squat extra blanket off the end of the bed and steps back down into the main living area. “Take it. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t you know any other words?” she complains. “If you talk like that all the time, people are going to assume you have a bad attitude.”

“Let people think whatever they want,” he answers. “I don’t give a shit.”

“So you do have a bad attitude, is what you’re saying.”

He turns on his heel. “What difference does it make to you? Do you want to share the bed?”

She flushes, and glares at her feet. “Of- Of course not! Not… Not right away, at least. I appreciate you being a gentleman about it, but you could try actually acting like a gentleman.”

“It’s only two weeks,” he tells her. He pulls out the back cushions of the couch and lines them up neatly behind it. “Don’t get so worked up over it.”

That shuts her up. She watches him make up the rest of it, her arms folded over her stomach. “You know,” she says, once he’s sat down, “you could try being a little more positive.”

“Whatever.” He kicks the decorative throw pillows off the end of the couch so that he can pull his legs up on it. Even for him, it’s a tight fit. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

*

Two weeks, it turns out, is a long, long fucking time.

*

They argue, constantly. She hassles him about his manners, his posture, the way he holds his fork. They never agree on what to do or where to go or when, and she absolutely refuses to give any ground, ever. She’s fucking insufferable.

“You’re not my goddamn mother!” he shouts across the kitchen. “I don’t need you riding my ass all the time!”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you actually pulled yourself together for once, I wouldn’t have to!” He slams the mini-fridge shut, and she tosses her hands in the air. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re such a child, you know that?”

“Usami,” he barks at the counter.

The device lights up. “Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What are our options for ending a relationship?”

“Oh, that’s your solution?” Mahiru demands. “You want to run away instead of acknowledging that maybe, maybe you have some issues you should be working through?”

“The relationship will end when time is up!” the device responds, cheerful.

He ignores her, and focuses on it. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot, I know that. I mean before that.”

“All expiration dates are carefully calibrated in order to generate an accurate partner profile, which helps in selecting your Ultimate Match,” it answers. “Participants are not allowed to terminate a relationship before the expiration date has passed. Doing so would compromise the quality of the data provided to the system.”

He freezes. Across the room, so does Mahiru. “What?” she says.

“Ever?”

“That’s right!”

“We’re stuck here for another fucking week?”

“That’s right!”

It waits for more input. After it goes a few long, excruciatingly silent minutes without getting any, it dims into standby.

“Look,” Mahiru starts, and that’s how it always starts, her same bullshit speech about having an open mind and trusting the system and, if you really listen, letting her drive their whole fucking relationship. He can’t listen to it again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. He shoulders past her, and grabs his coat from the hook. “I need some goddamn air.”

*

Natsumi agrees to give him an out, on the condition that he brings her a smoothie and walks around the park with her. He does it, because if he spends one more second in that tiny-ass cottage, he’s going to lose his fucking mind, and no amount of Natsumi squeaking her straw in her plastic lid is going to measure up ever again.

Her advice is, “Have you had sex yet? You should have sex,” and he gulps down way, way too much of his coffee. He manages not to spit it all down his front, and it scalds the back of his throat instead.

“God— fucking dammit, Natsumi! Did you not listen to a word I said?”

“Yeah,” she drawls, “I listened to all of it. She tells you to pick up your shoes sometimes and you’re a little bitch about it, I get it. If it’s such a lost cause, you might as well get something out of it before time’s up.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with someone I hate!”

“Who cares about that? You said two weeks, right? I doubt the system was gunning for you guys to settle into gross domestic bliss anyway.” She slurps her smoothie. “Hatesex is a thing.”

“You’re fucking full of shit.”

“Be miserable, then! What else do you want me to say?”

He doesn’t have the chance to answer. There’s a shout behind them, and some girl skids past, nearly clipping Natsumi’s elbow. She fumbles her smoothie, and it sloshes purple all down her front.

“Hey!” she shrieks. “Watch where you’re going, bitch!”

“I’m sorry!” the girl shouts over her shoulder. She keeps running. “I’ve got a really important mission! No time to explain!”

He feels better after that.

*

“Yo, Usami,” he asks, when it’s just him in the cottage, two nights before the expiration. He sprawls out on the couch, and lets his head hang off the edge.

“Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What’s the fucking point of this?”

“The system evaluates your reactions to each of your relationships in order to build a complex—”

“No, I mean this. Me and her. Why put us together in the first place?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Could’ve seen that one coming.

She gets back not long after him. She walks right past him without looking at him, straight back into the kitchen. They’ve gone three days without saying a damn word to each other, and maybe that should feel like an improvement over the constant screaming, but it doesn’t.

It feels pointless.

He sits up on the couch. “Hey.” She barely even reacts, just tilts her head enough that he knows she heard him. “Can I kiss you?”

She looks then. She glares, right over the curve of her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t make me say it again.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” she snaps. “Are you seriously this petty?”

“No! That’s not it. Just—” He gestures at his device, and hopes that gets the message across. “I’m fucking trying here, okay?”

She turns her glare down at the device, and then back up at him. Her jaw works. “... Fine,” she says, and then holds up a finger before he can get a word in. “One time. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She drops onto the couch beside him, except that she’s still too far away for him to do anything. He has to scoot to close the distance, and that makes her even more tense, shoulders drawn up and spine rigid. She stares back at him with that same, resolute glare she always wears, only now her face is a little pink, high on her cheekbones. It’d be cute, maybe, on literally anyone else.

They sit in silence. He tries to psyche himself up.

“... Well?” she demands. “How- How long are you just going to sit there? If you lost your nerve, just admit it so I can at least—”

He mutters, “Fuck, shut up,” and crushes his mouth over hers.

And yeah, he was right all along: Natsumi is full of shit.

It’s a bad kiss, and no weeks-old flare of physical attraction is enough to save it. Technically speaking, it’s fine, and contrary to what he expected Mahiru doesn’t just sit there like a dead fish; she tries maybe more than him, cupping his face in her hands and tilting him into a more comfortable angle. There’s just nothing there. It’s a wet, uncomfortable mess of lips with someone he hates.

It only lasts a few seconds before she groans and pushes him off.

“That was terrible,” she says.

It’s the first and only time he’s ever agreed with her. She slides away from him, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, well. Now we know, huh? This whole thing was a fucking waste of time.”

She wraps her arms around her middle. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess it was.”

She stands up from the couch and goes to bed.

*

Two of the automated carts are sent out to pick them up on the last day. When the timer breaks five minutes, they separate into their individual rides, and wait for it to run out.

END

[henrystickminbrainrot]

I’m sorry I couldn’t resist-

I discovered this ask blog and I just- 🥺

This AU belongs to @rhmg-au , PLEASE check out their blog.

(This fic isn’t canon to the AU, it’s just based off the blog. If you want to see how the AU’s story unfolds, check out the blog)

TW: brief abuse mentions

———————————————————————

Charles was shaking.

He couldn’t help it.

He was scared.

This treatment was... inhumane. Even for a Toppat.

Green was... still human.

But Galeforce had snapped.

Not much Charles could do about that.

And there his mind went, racing for ideas to free Green, get him back to his clan.

Thoughts that would lead to certain death if acted upon.

Galeforce was powerful.

Too powerful.

If Charles tried to defy him, he’d... disappear.

What other choice did he have other then to stay? If he ran, the Government would find him. If he ran, the Government would kill him.

He would’ve had no impact on anything.

Charles’s breathing was slowly slowing down. He gradually stopped shaking like a leaf.

But just because he wasn’t showing it, didn’t mean he wasn’t scared.

Quite the opposite.

He curled up into a ball and took several long breaths.

His mind was still on saving Green.

The more selfish parts were brainstorming ideas for saving himself.

Charles eventually got up and dusted himself off. He stuck his hands in his pocket and ducked his head, trying to avoid everyone. He needed sleep.

Even though he knew his dreams would be nothing but nightmares.

As he kept walking, catrastrophy struck.

Green was walking down the hall, yelling his name.

“Charles!” he called. Charles jumped, thinking Galeforce had read his thoughts and was going to kill him. But no, it was just Green. Charles steadied his gaze on the floor.

“Green, I... I don’t want to talk right now,” he muttered. It was... awkward being around him, for more then one reason. Green grabbed Charles’s arm comfortingly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone worried.

“I’m not in the best mood.” Charles replied, slowly removing his arm from Green’s grasp. “I just need some sleep. When I wake up, we can do something, ‘kay?” Charles had to admit, he liked spending time with Green.

As much as one could like spending time with a brainwashed mass murderer, anyway.

Green’s face fell. “Aww, c’mon Charli- Charles.” he begged, stumbling over his words. Charles stuck his hands back in his pockets. “I thought you said we could play Mario Kart!” Charles sighed.

“I did say that,” he replied. Charles looked up from the ground and made eye contact with Green.

This existence, brainwashed, working for the enemy, killing your friends...

It was the definition of torture.

Charles just hoped he was never out in that type of situation.

He took a couple breaths.

“Well, I’m never one to break my promises. If you wanna play that much, we can.” Charles replied. As much as he hated it, this was his job.

Green’s face lit up. He jumped up and down, squealing.

Despite his overwhelming terror, Charles smiled.

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Green said happily, grabbing Charles’s arm again and dragging him toward the break room.

One Month Later...

Charles sighed as he tore up another paper.

Why were escape plans so hard to make?

He took a long sip of his mug of coffee, trying to hold back the wave of tiredness he felt.

Charles hadn’t slept in two days, but really, that wasn’t important.

What was important was recent revelations.

The Toppat Leader (Henry, as his brain reminded him,) had sent out a expedition to rescue all the remaining Toppats on Earth.

It went successfully (which made Charles feel... conflicted), except for one minor detail.

The Toppat Leader was captured.

Charles knew Henry got out lucky, knowing he at least wasn’t killed.

But seeing that crestfallen look in his face when he realized what the Government did to Green...

It made something inside Charles snap.

Henry was going to be turned over to the Wall soon, but not before he would be used as bait to lure out his right hand lady.

Charles tore up another paper in frustration.

“What can I do, what can I do?!” he sobbed miserably, taking another long drink of his coffee.

Green had started glitching more and more since Henry was captured.

Charles hoped Green would get his memories back, bust Henry out, and escape.

According to Galeforce, that was extremely unlikely.

Charles hugged himself as he started spiraling more and more.

He felt so useless.

As he started to write another plan, he heard a knock at the door. Charles yelped and shoved the paper in between two books. He warily approached the door and opened it.

Galeforce was at the door.

Pure terror shot through Charles, but he tried to keep his composure calm.

“G-General! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he stammered, fiddling with a pull string on his hoodie. Galeforce chuckled darkly and shoved Charles out of the way, walking into his room.

“I wonder, Calvin... what are you working on? You haven’t slept for two days. Your room is a mess. You’re neglecting your duties.” Galeforce said sinisterly. Charles felt goosebumps crawl up his arms.

“I- uh-“ Charles sputtered. He couldn’t lie. That was one of his biggest weaknesses. Galeforce knew that. Galeforce exploited that.

“Did you know, Charlie, that Dr. V recently developed a microscopic camera? It’s revelationary for spying on the enemy... and for weeding out traitors.” Galeforce gave Charles a sharp glare. His tired mind put the puzzle pieces together much too late.

“Wait- but I’m not-“ he started desperately. Galeforce cut right over him.

“You’re not a traitor? You’re not a threat? Oh Charlie, we both know you can’t lie. Trying to let our biggest weapon just escape like that? Your efforts are traitorous, and useless.” Charles felt all his tiredness he replaced by pure, cold, fear. That was the only way to describe it.

“Please, Galeforce,” Charles pleaded desperately. “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but don’t do it. I’m nothing but loyal! Please...” Galeforce scoffed.

“Perhaps you’re telling the truth. Perhaps you’re not. The answer makes no difference.” he said as two soldiers rushed in, grabbing both of Charles’s arms.

“What are you gonna do to me?!” Charles screamed as he struggled against the two men. Galeforce smiled unpleasantly.

“Oh, Charlie. If you only you knew,” he mocked. “Gentlemen, bring him to the prison. Put him next to Mr. Stickmin’s cell.”

There was nothing Charles could do.

Once again, he was useless.

He was a failure.

———————————————————————

Charles’s eyes shot open.

When had he fallen asleep?

He rubbed his back. The prison beds felt like brick.

He slowly started examining the surroundings. He had been put into a decrepit cell. The walls were cracked and filled with cobwebs. The floor was painted a faded yellow. There wasn’t much in the cell. Just a toilet, a sink, and the brick bed.

It made him feel even more miserable than he already did.

He looked at the bell next to him and saw a tall and skinny man peering at him through the bars.

“C-Charles?” he said, his voice hopeful and confused and sad all at the same time. It was... a lot of emotions to handle.

“Henry!” Charles cried, running over to the bars. Henry was... a brief acquaintance at best. But it felt so good to see a friendly face. Well, a slightly friendly face.

“How- why-“ he stuttered, his face fully shifting to confusion. Henry was surprised now, too. Like he never expected this to ever happen, like it wasn’t in the realm of possibility. 

“Long story,” Charles sighed, hugging himself as he sat back on his bed.

“We’ve got time,” Henry replied, also sitting on his bed.

“You might, but my time’s running out.” Henry’s face was pained. “How long was I asleep for, anyway?”

“Two days,” Henry replied, shrugging. “You must’ve been really tired.” Charles widened his eyes.

“Really? Jeez. Well, I was up for two days straight.” Henry frowned.

“God, you sound overworked.” Despite everything, Charles laughed, only for a moment.

“I was trying to figure out an escape route for you and Green,” he explained, leaning against the wall and shrugging. Henry widened his eyes.

“Really?” he asked, stunned. “You didn’t have to do that. Especially for me.”

“No, I did.” Charles replied fiercely. “You were gonna be used to lure out the clan. The plan was to slaughter them while you watched helplessly behind bars. Then pawn you and your right hand lady over to The Wall once every other Toppat was exterminated.” Henry was silent for a moment.

“Ambitious plan,” he remarked. “But there are a lot of us. How would they take us all out?”

“Maybe with a brainwashed robot programmed only to kill Toppats?” Charles prompted, his voice sad. Henry blinked, that crestfallen look returning for a moment.

“Why are you telling me this?” Henry asked suddenly.

“I’m a traitor to the Government, so might as well tell everything to a person I barely know.” Charles said, shrugging. Henry looked sad at the words ‘barely know’.

“You’re the bravest man here, Charles,” he said, closing his eyes. Charles teared up, not sure what to say.

“I-“ he began before guards opened up his cell. Charles blinked, confused. “What is it?”

“Dr. V wants you,” one said flatly. They grabbed Charles’s arms again. He looked helplessly back at Henry, who’s eyes were watering.

“Charles, please, escape. I can’t lose you again.” Henry said, holding back a sob.

Again?

Again?!

What did that mean?

Charles thought it over as the guards dragged him to Dr. V’s lab. They shoved him in roughly and closed the door. Dr V. was sitting there, alone.

“Ah, Calvin.” she said, her voice not betraying any emotion. Charles started shaking. Dr V. had always scared him.

“What do you want? What are you gonna do to me?” he blurted. Dr. V. chuckled darkly, sounding all too much like Galeforce.

“Fear is a good emotion on you, Calvin!” she said, her smile growing more and more sinister. Charles pressed himself against the wall, his eyes panicked.

“Don’t hurt me...” he whispered. Dr V. pressed a button as she pulled on a mask. Smoke filled the room and Charles felt loopy. “What’s... happening...?” He hit the ground with a THUMP! as he passed out cold.

Dr V. stood above him, smirking. Not like anyone could see it through the mask.

“Time to get to work.”

[wistfulcynic]

To Keep It All The Year (1 /4)

Not long ago @katie-dub​ asked me if I was planning to write a Christmas fic. I said sure, I’m doing the CS Secret Santa. And then I thought about it, and I thought actually maybe I’ll write a little something for Katie because she is a delightful human, a kind and supportive friend, and one of the people I feel honoured to have got to know over the past year, and she deserves every nice thing. And then I started to think about what she might like and I had IDEAS which of course soon grew far beyond my original concept. And then @thisonesatellite​ egged me on (with REAL EGGS) and here is the result: an angry and broken Killian, a struggling single mother Emma, a precious wee Henry, and the healing power of Christmas magic. 

Katie, my dear, I can’t begin to tell you how much your support has meant to me these past few months. You are the loveliest and most loving person, and I hope you enjoy this little offering 💕

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past. 

All it takes is a little Christmas magic. 

On AO3

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed.  @kmomof4​​​​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​​​​​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​​​ @stahlop​​​​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​​​ @jonirobinson64​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​​​​ @shardminds​​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​​

-

PART ONE: THE PAST

He’s still broken when he meets her. Broken and bitter and angry. So, so very angry, the kind of angry that lodges in a man’s chest just below his heart and and rots there. Rots, but doesn’t rot away. The putrid tendrils of it twine and twist through him like the tentacles of the kraken he heard tales of as a boy. They fuse to his bones and mix with his blood and he welcomes them. His is a fury born of betrayal, by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in, and it’s all he has left of his life. It’s all he remembers how to feel. 

He’s come to this place for escape, for peace, but there’s precious little of either to be found. Not here. Not in this neighbourhood of once-lovely houses built tall and proud and so sturdy their ruin takes decades, a slow attrition of cracked windows and crumbling corners and decay that sinks into the walls and consumes them from within. But it’s the best he can afford on what he has that’s his, and he finds that the atmosphere suits him. A broken place for a broken man. 

He doesn’t have to work so for a while he doesn’t, spending his days walking the streets of the city on feet that carry him eventually, inevitably, to the docks. And there he stands, sometimes for hours, watching the horizon and the boats that move across it, stewing in his bitterness. 

He prefers to do his drinking alone on the ratty sofa that doubles as his bed, his only company the blinking neon and the traffic noise, and the smell of pot smoke that wafts from the apartment below. His thoughts are tumultuous then, memories of writhing seas and wind and waves and Liam, of courtrooms and lawyers and just accept the payout, Commander Jones. They’re the bloody Royal Navy, they have resources you can’t hope to match. 

Sometimes though his solitude becomes oppressive, a heavy darkness that sucks the air from his lungs and drives him back onto the streets where he breathes the filthy smog in heaving gulps and then again he walks, among the crowds but not of them, until he finds a bar where people look like they won’t ask questions. 

It’s on one of those days—of all the good days in the year on Christmas Eve—that as he trudges through the greying slush barely a block from his apartment his eye falls upon a door he feels sure he’s never seen before. It’s not in any way a special door, plain brown wood and a foggy window with writing he can’t quite make out, but a jolly little wreath is hung upon it and though he feels about as far removed from the Christmas spirit as any human creature could be, he finds himself pushing it open and going inside. 

The bar he enters is small and worn in the way of well-loved things, the gouged wood of the tables polished to a soft gleam and the cracks in the leather seats carefully mended. Tall rows of bottle-laden shelves line the brick wall behind a carved oak bar that looks far too ancient for this modern land. It takes him all in a rush and flutter of memories back to the England of his childhood, to his mother still untouched by disease and his father not yet embittered by loss, he and Liam free from care as children should be, sneaking from their beds on Christmas Eve and down the back staircase to hide in a toasty corner of the pub and wait for Father Christmas. 

He always awoke on Christmas morning in his bed, presents piled at the foot of it. A small pile, he knows now, but big to his young eyes, and he would wonder aloud how Santa managed to get him and Liam back to bed and deliver their presents as well. And Liam, six years older, would scoff and tell him don’t be stupid, Santa can do anything.   

“What can I get you?” 

The question snaps him back to the present and he realises he’s taken a seat on a leather topped stool at the bar. The woman behind it is smiling at him, a smile he’s certain she gives every patron but its bright warmth soothes him all the same. 

“Rum,” he replies.  

“Any particular kind?” 

“The cheapest you’ve got.” 

She grabs a bottle of a brand he knows is far from the cheapest and pours out a generous measure, places it on a cocktail napkin and slides it in front of him with a look that dares him to make something of it. He accepts her kindness with the most gracious nod he can manage, saluting her with the glass before taking a sip. It goes down smooth and he closes his eyes on a sigh, savouring the spicy richness and mellow burn, a far cry from the second cousin to paint stripper he’s grown accustomed to.

“Thank you,” he says. 

She smiles again. “Merry Christmas.” 

He sips the rum slowly as he falls back into his memories, the earlier ones of brighter days he hasn’t thought of in years, so long they almost feel like they belong to someone else. To the person he was when he was happy, and it surprises him to recall that he was happy, that despite what came later he was once a part of a loving family. It saddens him, how thoroughly he’s forgotten this. A melancholy sort of sadness that makes him long for a different life. 

And that, he thinks, is why he forgot. 

 The moment his glass is empty a new one appears at his elbow; although he didn’t speak to the lovely bartender it seems she anticipated him. 

He doesn’t want to stare at her and yet she draws his gaze. There’s a light within her, a warmth that illuminates her golden hair and makes her green eyes glow. He watches from the corner of his eye as she goes about her job, pouring shots and pulling pints, always with a smile and a kind word. She brightens everything she touches, leaves it a bit better than she found it. 

She’s magic, he thinks, then shakes off the foolish thought. 

He’s deep into his second glass when she pulls a phone from her back pocket and her smile falters as she reads the screen; her light seems to dim and flicker, and without a word she turns and runs from the bar. 

She returns moments later with a small boy in her arms, a lad who can’t be much more than three or four. He’s sound asleep against her shoulder and she cradles him protectively as she confronts the dark-haired man who’s emerged from the back office wearing a stern frown, arms crossed over his chest.

“Emma, you know you can’t have him in here,” the man says. 

“What do you want me to do, August, I can’t leave him home alone!” she implores. “He can sleep on the sofa in your office, he won’t be any trouble—” 

“We can’t have child unsupervised in the bar—” 

“He’s not unsupervised if you’re in the office—”

“I’m heading home in half an hour.”

“August, please—”

“I can look after the lad.” He’s not sure what prompts the offer, perhaps because he’s been recalling his own childhood and the patrons in his father’s pub who never minded him under their feet, who entertained him with tales of their lives on the sea and who, he’s come to realise, lifted some of the burden of childcare from his parents’ shoulders so they could do their jobs. Regardless of where it came from, he means it. It seems the least he can do for this remarkable woman.  

The woman—Emma—turns to him with a look of surprise. “Would you?” 

“If the only obstacle is not having anyone to sit with him, then yes, it would be my pleasure.” 

Emma fixes him him with a hard, searching look, and he is conscious of being measured and assessed and weighed in the balance as never before. Then she nods. “What’s your name?” 

“Killian Jones.” 

“Well, Killian Jones, you’d be saving my neck.” 

He smiles. It feels strange on his face after so long an absence, but also right. “It’s a neck worth saving, love.” 

She laughs. “I’m Emma Swan, and this is Henry. We just live across the street, if you could—” 

“Of course.” He grabs his coat and follows Emma as she heads for the door. 

“August, I’ll be back in fifteen,” she calls over her shoulder. 

“Make it ten.” 

—

The cold outside is bitter, biting. It comes as a shock after the cosy warmth of the bar, and he’s glad Emma was being truthful when she said she lived just across the street. Across it and a bit to the left in a building much like Killian’s own, with solid brickwork and elegantly wrought cornices obscured by grime and years of neglect, its pointing crumbling away under the weight of creeping moss. She leads him through the outer door—its lock is broken, he observes—and up a chilly staircase several flights to a door where he’s relieved to see that the lock is both sturdy and new. He’s prepared to bet Emma installed it herself. 

She unlocks it, balancing Henry on her hip in a practiced manoeuvre, and leads him into a tiny apartment that from his cursory observations strikes him as far too familiar for his liking. He follows her into the bedroom where she lays the boy on a child-sized bed in one corner of the cramped room. There is an adult single bed in another corner, along with a sturdy bureau that takes up most of the remaining space and a rickety chair draped in clothes. A few toys litter the floor around Henry’s bed, and Killian is impressed by the way Emma navigates around them even in the dark. 

She tucks the blankets around her son then gently shakes his shoulder until he wakes. 

“Mom?” Henry murmurs groggily. “Has Santa come?”

“Not yet, baby, but he will. You just have to go back to sleep first.” 

“You woke me up,” Henry points out. Killian feels a grin tug at his lips. Clever lad. 

Emma’s mouth quirks as well. “I know, but Mrs Lucas had an emergency so Killian here is going to look after you until I finish work,” she says. “Is that okay?” 

Henry blinks at Killian and once again he feels his measure being taken by one who knows how to take it. 

“Okay,” says Henry. 

“Good. Just go back to sleep, baby, and if you wake up again Killian will be here.” 

“’kay Mom.” Henry’s eyelids are already drooping. Emma touches Killian lightly on the arm and indicates with a slight jerk of her head that he should follow her again. They retreat to the living room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind them.

“If you need me just call the bar,” Emma says. “The number’s on the fridge and I can be here immediately.” 

“I’m sure everything will be fine, love.” 

She looks at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He wonders what she sees, and what she thinks of it.  

“Thank you for doing this, Killian,” she says. “Truly.” 

His first impulse is to shrug away her thanks but something deep within him refuses to allow it. She doesn’t often ask for help, of this he’s certain, and although he has no notion of what might have led her to do so he’s deeply honoured that she’s asked it of him. Her gratitude deserves acknowledgement. 

“You’re welcome, Emma,” he replies with another rusty attempt at a smile, rubbing at a spot just below his right ear. “Um, hadn’t you better get back to work? I imagine that boss of yours is counting the seconds until your return.”  

“Probably.” The corners of her lips dance in amusement. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

“I’ll be here.” 

—

After she leaves he finds himself at a bit of a loss, unaccustomed to being alone in other people’s living spaces. He doesn’t want to turn on the television for fear of waking Henry, and Emma doesn’t have much in the way of books. With no other means of passing the time at hand he wanders around her apartment, not wishing to snoop but intensely curious about this young woman and her son. 

The curiosity is new.

Their place is on the surface much like his own, the run-down building, the un-insulated windows, the mould in the corners and the general overlay of grime that no amount of scrubbing could ever shift. It’s grim, the sort of grimness that creeps its way into the soul and slowly sucks it dry.  

And yet. There’s plastic on Emma’s windows, a thin film of it attached with double-sided tape and fitted with a hairdryer. Do-it-yourself insulation. She’s built shelves that hide the cracks in the wall and decorated them, with candles she actually burns and small framed pictures—some of which are clearly Henry’s work—plus some other little knickknacks and art projects of his. In the corner is a small Christmas tree decorated with coloured lights and a few bright baubles jumbled alongside ornaments made of uncooked pasta, glued in the shape of stars and painted gold, and cut-up paper snowflakes. She’s creative and clever and so is her lad, and the effect is far homier and more festive than Killian would ever have imagined it could be. 

She’s trying, this Emma. There’s not much she can do with a place like this, but still she tries, and there’s valour in that effort. It brings a lump to Killian’s throat. How long it seems since he stopped trying. 

He jumps as a noise comes from the bedroom, a small cry that lengthens into a wail. 

“Mamaaa,” cries Henry. 

Killian rushes into the bedroom and then stops, unsure of what to do. He sits on the edge of Henry’s bed, his hand hovering over the small form huddled beneath the blankets. 

“Henry? Lad, it’s Killian. Do you remember me?” 

Henry’s tearstained face appears and he snuffles, and rubs the back of his hand across his nose. He stares at Killian for a moment then nods. “I remember,” he says.

Slowly Killian lets his hand fall on the boy’s shoulder, rubbing it in a way he hopes is soothing. “Your mum’s still at work, but I’m here. What’s the matter?” 

“I had a dream.” 

“A scary one?” 

“Yeah.” Henry’s lip quivers. He looks so distraught, and Killian surprises himself by sliding further onto the bed and reaching out his arm. Henry dives immediately beneath it and snuggles against Killian’s chest, burying his face in it and sniffling some more. Killian swallows past the lump in his throat, breathes through the squeezing pressure in his chest at the feel of the small body pressed against his, at the unbelievable honour of this show of trust.

“Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he asks. 

“No,” says Henry, the word muffled against Killian's sweater but no less decisive for it.  

“Oh. Erm... shall I tell you a story then?” 

“Do you know any stories?” Henry looks up at him, wide-eyed. 

“Aye. Sailors are renowned storytellers.” 

“Are you a sailor?” 

“I was.” 

“Okay.” Henry snuggles closer, adjusts himself so that he can look at Killian while still resting against his shoulder. “Tell me a sailor story. Please.” 

Killian weaves him a tale of a ship lost upon uncharted oceans, of a sailor with a broken heart who in a fit of despair cursed a true lovers’ knot and flung it overboard, which heedless act awakened an eldritch beast from out the briny deep. He tells of how the brave sailors fought against the beast to save their ship, and of how they succeeded, though at the cost of their souls.

It’s rather a dark tale for a child perhaps, but one he loved himself at Henry’s age. He can remember sitting before the fire in the pub, curled in Liam’s lap listening, as wide-eyed and rapt as Henry is now, to the old and weathered sailors as they wove it skilfully around him. Henry is enthralled but as the story unfolds his eyelids grow heavier and his body more relaxed, and by the time Killian has finished recounting the sailors’ terrible fate the boy is sound asleep.

Killian tries to ease him back into his bed but Henry clings to him, tiny fist tight on his sweater. With a sigh, Killian settles down and makes himself as comfortable as possible on the small bed, cradling Henry securely beneath his arm and tucking the blankets around them both. He closes his eyes, just to rest them, he thinks, and moments later he falls soundly asleep. 

-