#demgains | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blessed-but-distressed · 7 years

Text

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

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

also on ff.net

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon and whoever else asks me.

Thanks always to the cool-as-fuck @lenfaz, for her tireless efforts in keeping me motivated.

Killian

He could feel it, the regret, welling up in his chest, his vision blurring as he scrolled through page after page of poorly punctuated text.

14,202 responses.

14,202 people who were up for being Emma Swan's friend, and for some reason Killian Jones had appointed himself their gatekeeper.

14,202 reasons to wish he'd never even heard the name Emma Swan.

The task itself was burdensome enough, a time suck if ever there was one. But it was the sexually aggressive come ons he encountered that really propelled it towards torture. There was no other way of saying it: Men were pigs.

Barely three hundred messages in, and he was already half prepared to hand back his testicles and start writing long-winded notes of apology to every woman he'd ever met. Yes, Emma Swan was gorgeous. Yes, the #FindEmmaSwanAFriend campaign had made it clear there was an existing vacancy in her social life. But why hundreds of men had taken that to mean she would suddenly welcome obscene pick up lines and unsolicited dick pics was beyond him.

At least he wasn't entirely alone in this second circle of hell. It hadn't taken much inducement to get the boy to forego his cartoons in favour of helping out. The vague promise of a zoo excursion at some unspecified point in the near future, and the lad was putty in his hands. Which was how Killian found himself scouring through responses at the dining room table, with his eldest nephew, Callum, sitting opposite.

Even at eight years old, Callum was already the more steady influence of the two Jones boys, quiet and bookish, and far less prone to the feats of daring which tended to land Lachie in A&E every other month. His enthusiasm for penguins notwithstanding, history had a way of repeating itself in the most interesting of ways.

Killian had originally set the boy up to go through the pre-approved responses he'd already printed out, and asking him to choose people he felt good about. Children, Killian had found, were a bit like dogs; they were often better judges of character than most fully fledged adults. But the task must have grown wearisome at some point, because there came a small voice from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

"Uncle Killian, what's an orgasm?"

Killian snapped the lid of the laptop shut in a hurry, turning to the boy with a painted on smile. He hadn't even seen him move. "You know what, lad? Perhaps you'd be better off helping your father with dinner. You know how he likes to burn things."

As if his words had summoned him, Liam suddenly appeared in the doorway, surveying the scene with cool suspicion. "What fresh hell have you dragged my eldest into now?"

"Research," Killian replied, affecting a casual shrug. "I thought you'd be pleased. I'm 'making an effort'."

"Hmmm," his brother replied, still unconvinced. "And yet, one has to wonder if the reason for this sudden work ethic has anything to do with the fact that Emma Swan looks like that," he said, pointing to a stray copy of the original #FindEmmaSwanAFriend advertisement laying open on the counter, Emma's unrestrained smile spilling out from the page in a way that Killian had yet to see from her in real life.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but it was his nephew who spoke first. "Dad," Callum interrupted, tugging at his father's sleeve. "What does orgasm mean?"

Liam's eyes widened comically, caught unawares, but it took only a moment before his gaze shifted back to his brother, his expression darkening as realisation took hold. Killian held arms aloft in an unconvincing display of innocence, but if looks could kill, he'd already be as charred as yesterday's Beef Wellington.

"Ahm, that's a question for your Mum, I think," Liam said, grabbing the boy about the shoulders and steering him out into the hallway. "In about five years or so," he added wryly, giving the boy a little push back towards the living room, and the distractions of the television.

"I can-" Killian began, as his brother turned back to glare at him.

"I really don't want to know," Liam sighed, cutting him off with a weary shake of his head. "Just clean this mess up before Elsa gets home, alright?"

He looked stressed, Killian realised, and not just about Callum's naive question. Though Liam had adopted his usual post-work uniform of loosened tie and rolled up shirtsleeves, there was little else in his posture to suggested he was at leisure. If that wasn't damning enough, his hair seemed to be sticking up more than normal, as if he'd been running his hands through it for the better part of the day. Killian was willing to bet if he got a little closer he'd even be able to see the purple vein on his brother's forehead visibly throbbing.

"Everything alright?" Killian asked, unable to mask his growing concern. "Your meeting with Ingrid?"

But if he had been expecting a confidential chat, as equals, perhaps Killian had been reading from the wrong script.

"Everything's fine," Liam snapped, with the kind of brusqueness that highly suggested otherwise. "Just get this cleared away, and stop corrupting my children. Elsa will be home any minute."

Killian was tempted to press the point, but they were both of them interrupted by the intrusive blaring of the smoke detector in the next room. Followed immediately by the tell-tale whiff of burnt rice.

"Bloody hell," Liam swore, tearing from the room. "Not again."

Killian moved instead towards the windows, welcoming the icy blast of fresh air with a shiver. It looked like takeaway was on the menu. Again.

How do you feel about athletic types? KJ

…

You mean in general, or is this about your list? ES

I mean, do you have a particular aversion to people whose Instagram feed consists entirely of gym selfies using the hashtag #demgains and pictures of salads? KJ

I think exercise is the devil, CrossFit is a cult, and bagels are life. ES

So that's a hard pass, then. Good to know. KJ

It was Friday night, and the streets of the Old Town appeared as they always did come the weekend, rife with roving gangs of stag parties and hen dos straight out of Chester or Newcastle, resplendent in their matching commemorative T-shirts and sashes. Killian watched them as they struggled down Victoria Street in impractical shoes, and took turns throwing up into the West Bow Well.

"Five points to kiss a man in a kilt!" one of the women slurred as he passed, having grown bold under the influence of what seemed to be one too many margaritas, by the stain down her dress. Killian settled for turning his collar up against the wind, and searching out a quiet corner from where he could check his phone.

Why she had agreed to meet him in the Grassmarket of all places, in the midst of all this calculated debauchery, puzzled him. Aye, it was populated. Aye, it was well-lit, all the better to see the tourist hordes slowly sinking into extreme inebriation. But it was hardly the right venue for getting one's measure, he thought.

But Killian wasn't one to turn down a drinks invitation from a pretty lass. Not least from the pretty lass he'd somehow roped into being a willing participant in his little sociological experiment.

So he waited. And he waited some more.

It was a quarter past the hour when he finally spotted her, long red curls billowing behind her as she hurried up from Candlemaker Row wrapped in a fluffy green coat, three young men following in her wake.

"Killian Jones?" she asked, approaching him warily.

"Aye," he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "Glad you could make it."

Merida, as he planned to name her in his article, was what Killian might call Proper Scottish. She had the red hair. The clan name. The distinctive burr that seemed to come right out of some remote Highland glen. She was the living, breathing stereotype of a milk-fed country lassie, and he could think of no more qualified candidate to introduce Emma to the wonders of Scottish hospitality. If for no other reason than she was the only one on his shortlist who'd actually responded to his email.

The trio that trailed after her were her brothers, as it transpired, rather than her bodyguards. Though it would be easy enough to make that mistake, what with each giving Killian a bruising handshake and some whispered threat or other over the course of one too many drinks at the Beehive Inn. Drinks Killian was apparently expected to pay for.

"You shouldn't encourage 'em," she chided over her barely touched pint of Guinness. "They'll take advantage."

Too late for that.

"So what brought you to Edinburgh, lass?" Killian ventured, figuring they'd wasted enough time making idle chitchat.

"A job," she shrugged. "There's no' exactly a lo' of work goin' back in Dun Broch."

A familiar enough tale. As pretty as the Highlands were, there wasn't much in the way of industry these days unless you were willing to waste your life away behind a counter, selling keyrings and commemorative shot glasses to passing tourists. Young people tended to get out early, and stay gone.

"And your brothers followed you?" he asked. "Must be nice, having family close by."

The lass snorted, her Guinness threatening to spill out of her nose. "Sorry," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Do you have any brothers?"

"Two."

"The' you ken. You love 'em, but the' can also be…"

"A lot to manage," Killian finished for her.

"Exactly," Merida smiled. "So wha's she like, then? Emma?" Merida asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Killian leaned back in his chair, considering the question properly. Aye, he'd already described her to his readers, but even then he'd felt his descriptions had been lacking, a poorly drawn caricature of who Emma Swan really was.

"She's complicated," Killian admitted. "Quick-witted. Stubborn. Strong. A rather developed sense of irony for an American."

"Nice?" Merida ventured, her uncertainty showing.

"Perhaps. With time. She's funny. Even without meaning to be. But I'm not going to lie to you, lass, she isn't the easiest person to get to know. At first she's a little brisk. Prickly, even. I get the impression she's been let down before, because she tends to automatically assume the worst of people, rather than wait around to be disappointed."

He knew he'd said too much when Merida leaned back in her chair, gaze subtly shifting over to the bar where her brothers stood, unsuccessfully trying to chat up a cohort of young women in matching pink tiaras and feather boas.

"I'm not doing a very good job at selling this, am I?" Killian said with a groan.

"You coul' be doin' better," she offered.

And yet, in that moment, he saw it. The flash of familiarity. Perhaps he wasn't entirely crazy for thinking these two might hit it off.

"Look, Emma doesn't make friends easily. That much is blatantly clear. But the ones she has made? It's clear they mean the world to her. And she to them. After all, they were the ones to instigate all of this, simply because they couldn't stand the thought of her being lonely out here."

"If my friends did tha' to me…" Merida shuddered.

"Agreed. But I'd like to think it takes a special kind of person to inspire that level of stupidity in others."

"Like decidin' to write abou' an American lassie finding friends for a whole year?"

"Like that," Killian conceded, with a smile.

"So you mus' think she's worth the effort, then?"

That pulled him up short. "I think…" he said, best trying to arrange his thoughts. " I think Emma deserves a real chance at happiness here. As much as anyone. And if my column can help with that, then all the better. So tell me, what made you respond to Emma's ad in the first place?"

I think I found a promising candidate for you. KJ

Oh? ES

Aye. I think you have plenty in common. Are you free tonight to discuss? KJ

It's Valentine's Day. ES

…

You have alternate plans? KJ

Of course not. But don't you? ES

After a fashion. But you're more than welcome to join. KJ

If that is a poncy British way of initiating a ménage à trois… ES

I'm babysitting. My brother is the one with the Valentine's plans. With his wife. I, on the other hand, am on nephew-wrangling duty, because apparently children can be a real mood killer. But as I said, you are welcome to come by. We're making tacos. KJ

Yeah, I'm not good with kids. ES.

Me neither. And yet, somehow, the little cretins haven't died on my watch yet. KJ

I don't know… ES

Aren't you curious who your new best friend is going to be? KJ

Not the gym bunny? ES

Perish the thought. KJ

And there will be tacos? ES

There will indeed be tacos. KJ

Hard shell or soft? ES

Both. KJ

Well played, Jones. ES

See you at 7 then, Swan? KJ

For only the twentieth time that day, Killian Jones wondered where exactly he got all of his bright ideas from.

Aye, he needed to convince Emma to give a meeting with Merida a shot. And he needed to extract some sliver of personal information out of her. He couldn't hope to sustain his column with his witticisms forever. At some point, Emma had to step forward and become a character in her own right, if he had any hope of appealing to his subscription base. And to do that, he had to get to know her.

So he did need to see her. And he was going out of town for a few days, so there wasn't a lot of flexibility in his schedule. But inviting her to help babysit his nephews? What had he been thinking?

It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not least because it required the permission of at least one of their parents. Neither of which was looking like an attractive option, considering the amount of grief he was likely to get over it.

He still hadn't made his mind up which one to approach when his decision was made for him, his sister-in-law calling his name from down the hall.

"Killian?"

Well, at least she was the more sympathetic of the two.

"You beckoned?" he asked, popping his head around the door frame.

Elsa stood in front of a full length mirror, fretting with the sleeve of her pale blue dress. As per usual, she looked ethereally lovely, a state which was at odds with the frown she wore in her reflection.

Killian whistled in appreciation. "You do realise it's not too late? You could always ditch Liam and run off with the younger, more dashing brother?" he offered sardonically.

She turned to him, her eye roll still managing to be affectionate somehow. "Thank you, I think. Can you zip me up?" She asked, gesturing to the back of her dress.

"As the lady insists," he said with an exaggerated bow, stepping closer to assess the task at hand. When he went out he tended to wear his prosthetic, but at home he often went without, switching it over for the more versatile, but slightly more discomfiting hook. The last thing Elsa needed was for him to tear a hole right through her shiny new dress.

"I appreciate this, you know," Elsa said suddenly, startling Killian as he reached out to take the zipper. "You taking care of the boys. I know there are probably other things you'd rather be doing. It's just, I know Liam's been stressing himself out with Ingrid in town. I want him to have fun tonight. Let it go for a few hours."

"I'm happy to help," Killian replied, pulling the zip up the rest of the way. And then sensing he wasn't going to get any better opening than that, he ripped off that plaster. "Having said that, perhaps there is something you can do for me?"

"Oh?" she asked, turning around to face him with an amused smile curving her lips.

"Do you remember Emma?"

"Emma?" she repeated, her eyebrows furrowing together. "You mean #FindEmmaSwanAFriend, Emma?"

"Aye," Killian said, reaching up to scratch behind one ear. "I've been meaning to touch base with her, but I'm off to Glasgow tomorrow for the film festival. I was sort of hoping I could invite her here."

She looked puzzled by his request. "This is your house too, Killian. You know you don't need my permission to invite someone over."

Killian took a deep breath. "Only, I might have mentioned I was babysitting tonight, and invited her to eat with me and the boys?"

"You invited her to babysit with you?" Elsa clarified, in such a way he couldn't be sure of her feelings on the matter.

"If you're not comfortable with that-" Killian began.

"Just to be clear," Elsa interrupted him. "You invited Emma Swan, the woman you agreed to write about all this year, home to eat tacos and watch Pixar movies with you and my sons. On Valentine's Day?"

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "Bloody hell, Elsa. It's not a date."

"But it's not exactly work either, is it?"

"It's a… it's a friendly gesture," Killian admitted. "But you don't understand. Emma is... she's guarded, alright? If I want people to really connect with her, if I want her story to truly resonate, then I need to know a little more about her. And there's no way she'll ever be comfortable enough to give me that, unless I'm prepared to do the same."

"So this is a case of 'I show you mine, you show me yours'?" Elsa asked, her tone still far too amused for Killian's liking.

"You make it sound crass, love."

"No, I think I understand. I do," she emphasised, when Killian shot her a look. "It shows you've really thought about it. About how you're going to sustain that relationship over the year. It's kind of impressive, actually."

"So you're okay with her coming by?" Killian clarified.

"Of course. I trust you to do the right thing."

"Thank you, love," he said, releasing a long held breath and leaning forward to brush a brotherly kiss to her temple. "I appreciate that."

"But Killian?" she said, stopping him dead in the doorway before he could make himself scarce. "It's okay if you just want to get to know her for the sake of it, you know?"

He paused for a moment, biting back a retort. "Have fun tonight, Elsa. And keep my brother out of trouble," he said, before leaving to her to get ready alone.

Emma

Okay, so Killian Jones was rich.

When Google Maps had led her directly in front of a two-storey Victorian in Merchiston, with honest-to-god ivy growing on the walls, Emma figured she had the wrong address. But after double-checking Killian's text, she couldn't see how she could've screwed up.

And as she walked down the paved drive, the impressive facade of the house looming over her, she wondered if she really had Killian Jones quite as figured out as she thought she did.

The entranceway was ridiculous. A church's worth of stained glass framing an imposing black door, a solid brass knocker in the center. Feeling a little bit foolish, she lifted the handle, bringing it down three times.

Why couldn't they just have a doorbell?

She heard a shuffle of movement from inside, and then Killian Jones appeared in front of her. He was minus the leather jacket she had come to expect from him. A waistcoat, it turned out, was what lay underneath, and he managed to make it work. His prosthetic, she noticed, had been replaced with some kind of metal attachment. But not wishing for him to catch her staring, she instead drew her eyes to her immediate surroundings.

"You neglected to mention you were loaded," Emma said, by way of greeting, stepping past him into the front hall and out of the cold. "This house is…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Opulent?" Killian suggested, closing the door after her. "And I'm not loaded." Killian added with a smirk, taking her jacket from her. "My sister-in-law however… Let's just say, if anyone is the reacher in that relationship, it's my brother."

"Your brother, the editor?"

"That's the one. So," he said, rubbing his hands together, so much as he could. "Ready to meet the gremlins?"

"When you put it like that…" She grimaced, but allowed herself to be led down the hallway anyway, emboldened by the promise of tacos.

The living room itself was like something right out of a furniture catalogue, and not one from IKEA, either. The furniture all matched, the art on the walls was tasteful and there was a real marble fireplace, with an actual fire burning in the grate. The whole tableau wouldn't have looked out of place in a Burt Reynolds photoshoot, if it weren't for the two small boys clad in superhero pajamas sat around a small coffee table, fit to bursting with taco fixings.

They looked up as they entered, tiny faces lit with excitement and smeared with excess salsa.

"Lachie, Callum," Killian said, pointing to each boy in turn. "This is Emma. She's a friend from work. I've invited her to eat with us. And you're going to be on your very best behaviour for our guest, aye?"

Both boys nodded solemnly, before the oldest emitted a sudden and overloud burp, the two of them bursting into peals of laughter.

Ah, children.

"Hi," Emma said, her opening gambit as pathetic as her wave. "Thanks for letting me join you."

"They won't bite, Swan," Killian whispered from her side, suddenly much closer than she remembered. "Well, Lachie might. But you've had all your jabs, correct?"

And then before she could figure out if he was kidding or not, he pushed her into the open space beside the youngest, the aforementioned Lachie. Who may or may not bite.

"Hi," she said again, settling down on a cushion beside him. "Would you be able to pass me a plate?"

"You talk funny," the boy said, reaching over the extract a plastic plate from the stack piled high on the table.

Killian shot the boy a sharp look, but Emma waved him off. "Yeah, that's because I'm from America. Do you know where that is?"

"That's where Aunty Anna lives," came the voice of the eldest, Callum, from the other side of the table. "She lives in New York City with Uncle Kristoff. And they have a dog. His name is Sven and he's a Norwegian Elkhound. Uncle Kristoff says he can talk, but only to him. Aunty Anna thinks Uncle Kristoff is very silly."

The kid was clearly precocious, but not such a big fan of pausing between his sentences, making the entire spiel seem like one long run-on sentence.

"Oh," said Emma, not expecting this wealth of new information. "And have you ever gone to visit Aunty Anna?"

"We were in her wedding," Callum continued. "It was my job to carry the flowers. And I started sneezing all the time. Mummy said it was hayfever. And I remember the penguins at the zoo. And the big buildings. And the park. I remember, but Lachie was just a baby, so he doesn't remember it at all."

"I do so!" came the vehement reply of his younger brother, unhappy with being left out of the narrative.

"Do not!"

"Do so!"

"Boys!" Killian cried, causing both of them to abandon their mounting argument. "Remember what I said about best behaviour?"

The two boys fell into a sullen silence, but Killian on the other hand, merely looked amused. "Cheer up, lass," he said, as he leaned forward to snag a bowl of chopped tomatoes out from under her nose. "What would you rather be doing with your evening? Watching Netflix?"

Okay, so the tacos were pretty good. And when they weren't getting into arguments over inane details, the two Jones boys were kind of cute. Sort of. Emma wasn't really a kids person. Even when she was a kid, she hadn't been a big fan.

Fortunately, bedtime came around soon enough, Killian disappearing upstairs to tuck them in while Emma did a great job of pretending she wasn't snooping. It wasn't snooping if they had the pictures on display in the common areas, right?

Emma didn't recognize the couple in the wedding photo that took pride of place on the mantelpiece, but she recognized the best man easily enough. Killian Jones. He'd been younger then, his hair longer and shaggier, but it was undeniably him. Mugging for the camera with his arm around his brother's shoulders. One hand clutching a beer bottle, the other holding a bunch of flowers. Two hands. Not a prosthetic, back then.

So the missing hand hadn't always been missing, then. And it was a fairly recent development. She heard footsteps on the stairs and she turned away from the photograph, pretending to admire the Jones' not inconsiderable record collection. John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters seemed to come up a lot. She idly wondered if they belonged to the brother, or his wife. Or if it was an interest they both shared.

"Warm beverage?" came a voice near her elbow, startling her out of her thoughts.

"I think we should get you a collar with a bell on it," Emma said, clutching her chest, turning around to find Killian already holding out a mug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You didn't think two hot chocolates were enough already?" Emma asked, taking the cup from his hand.

"Third time's the charm," he shrugged. "Also I spiked this one."

Emma, who already had her mug halfway to her lips took an experimental sip, causing her to cough out loud. "Wow," she said with a little laugh, lowering the mug. "Yeah, you did. Do I look that terrified?" She asked, moving to take a seat on the designer looking couch. She was almost afraid to bring her mug with her, in case she spilled something on it.

"Only a little," Killian said, taking a seat on the opposite end, clutching a beverage of his own. How exactly he'd managed to carry both in from the kitchen in one trip, Emma couldn't say. "You put up a good front. Kids can smell fear, but I think you had them fooled."

"But not you, huh?" Emma said, curling her feet underneath her.

"Well, I'm quite perceptive lass," he said, with a smirk.

"And modest, too," Emma remarked, earning a chuckle in response.

"You're good with them," she said suddenly. "Your nephews, I mean. You seem really close. Do you babysit a lot?"

"Well…" This smile faltered a little, and Emma wondered if she'd made an accidental faux pas. Had she misread the situation? "Actually," he began again, looking visibly uncomfortable. "The truth is that I live here. In the guest room. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but I suppose we're now entering the stage where it's hard to kid myself on that score any longer. So at this point I think they just consider me part of the furniture."

He seemed almost ashamed somehow. As if there was something wrong with wanting to live in a beautiful house, surrounded by your own flesh and blood.

"Neighborhood too bourgeois for you?" Emma asked, before she could stop herself.

She was rewarded with another laugh, the furrow between his brows disappearing. "Well, there is that," he smiled. "I don't know. Don't get me wrong, I realise this is a palace. Compared to the places my brother and I grew up?" He shook his head. "I suppose I just miss the independence. Miss having my brother's disapproving looks at more than an arm's length."

"It must be hard," Emma mused. "Your boss being your brother. Your brother being your boss."

"I think bossing me around comes quite naturally to him, actually. Only, I'm not quite as good at taking orders as I used to be. Sometimes for so large a house it can be suffocatingly small."

It wasn't really a confession you could build on. Emma didn't have any sibling stories to share, and she doubted he wanted to hear about her crappy childhood anyway. She settled for taking another sip from her mug, letting the amaretto warm her from the inside out.

"You're not really one for sharing, are you?" Killian noted, regarding her with more scrutiny than she was really comfortable with.

"Don't have much to share," Emma shrugged.

"I doubt that very much. You seem like many things, Emma Swan. But boring? I doubt it. Take this, for instance. How does a lass like you end up on the wrong side of the Atlantic anyhow, teaching American history to a bunch of kids who couldn't quite scrape into Cambridge?"

"I applied?"

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "No one leaves all their friends and family behind and starts a new life three thousand miles away without a reason. So what was it? Bad break-up?"

"No." Walsh's face flashed in her mind for an instant. "Well, yes. But no, I mean, that's not why I came here."

He looked unconvinced. "No?"

"No."

"Then might I inquire…?"

"So you can write it all down in your little article? I don't think so, Buddy."

"Off the record, then," he said, pushing his phone across the table towards her in a show of good faith. "Why Scotland? Why now? And I swear, if you say anything about Outlander, we're done here."

She poked her tongue out at him for that. Sure, Jamie Fraser was one fine slice of Highland prime beef, but he hadn't really figured much into her decision. Her own decision hadn’t been half so simple. But hell, he’d asked for it, right?

"The break-up wasn't the reason, exactly. But it made it easier. Less to leave, I guess. And then I lost my job. Voluntary redundancy, or whatever. But at least I got a payout. And my friends, well they've all got their own stuff going on. Mary Margaret's trying for a baby. Ruby and Victor are moving in together. August has his book. And I had this money, burning a hole in my pocket. I guess I figured I had nothing to lose."

"You do realise this is the most you've ever spoken about yourself since I met you?" Killian pointed out, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

"And you say you do this for a living?" Emma asked in disbelief.

"Well, I think I also implied I'm a bit of a problem employee. So I'm guessing you were the dumper, rather than the dumpee?"

"What, with Walsh? Why would you assume that?" Emma asked, feeling her hackles raise.

"Well, you're something of an open book, lass. For one thing, you don't seem all that cut up about it. And for another, I think if you were properly distraught you would have sought out the company of your friends, rather than choosing to isolate yourself in some far off place."

He was right, damn him. Why did he have to be right?

"Fine. I'm the one who broke it off, happy? He proposed, and instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I decided I'd rather break his heart into little itty bitty pieces."

"You were in love with him?"

What was with the men in her life, and their fixation with Emma's feelings about Walsh?

"Sure, I guess. He's a good guy. We just weren't… endgame."

"Hmmm," said Killian thoughtfully.

"What?" Emma asked, wondering if she was really ready for another one of his theories.

"He didn't really get it, did he? The orphan thing?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "How the fuck did you know that?"

"Well I didn't, for sure. But I suspected. I've been around my share of orphans. There's a certain look, when you've been left on your own too long. And you, Swan, have the look."

Emma knew the look he meant. One part neglect to two parts chip on one's shoulder. It never entirely left you, no matter how many birthdays you had, or paychecks you cashed. An orphan was always an orphan.

"You're one to talk. Your brother raised you, didn't he?" Emma hadn't needed to meet Liam Jones to realize why he loomed so large in his brother's imagination. Not a case of sibling rivalry at all, but a lingering fear of not living up to his brother's expectations.

"He did," Killian confirmed. "But our father isn't dead. He just left, not too long after our mother passed. He turned up about ten years ago, out of the blue with a whole new family. A brother we never even knew existed."

"Ouch."

"Liam didn't take it very well. Not that I can blame him. They're still not on speaking terms."

"And you?"

"It's not our brother's fault his father is a coward. He's in his first year of university now, down in Exeter. We email sometimes. I can't quite bring myself to write to my father. I doubt anything I wanted to say could be expressed via email anyway."

For a man who might have been just about one of the most articulate people Emma had ever met, that might've been hard to swallow. But she thought she understood what he meant. Sometimes it wasn't about words. But sometimes they were all you had.

"I'm from Maine, originally," Emma blurted out. "You asked me once. That's where I was found on the side of the road, as a baby." She didn't want to play this game. This 'whose childhood was worse' game. But she felt compelled to give him something. "So, you were right about me. I grew up bouncing from foster home to foster home until I aged out of the system. Had a near-miss with the law and decided I didn't want to be a statistic. So I got my GED, applied to a bunch of colleges and took out a mountain of student loans. Somehow I ended up back in a small town in Maine about fifty miles from where I started, studying history, and I liked it there, so I stayed for a while. And now I'm here?"

"Here you are," Killian said, raising his mug to clink against her own. "Nice to meet you at last, Emma Swan," he said, piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

It would have been easy to lower her gaze, but she didn't, even as she drained the last of her cup. "Likewise, Killian Jones."

"So," Emma said, fingers tracing the rim of her empty mug. "You mentioned you found me a new best friend?"

Her name was Merida.

Or at least, that was what Killian was going to call her in his column. Anonymity apparently only an option for people who hadn't already had their real name splashed all over the internet.

"I can't decide if you're going to get along like a house on fire, or try to kill each other," he'd said, as if that was in any way a solid recommendation.

And then he'd suggested archery, of all activities. Because this Merida was apparently something of an expert. At archery.

"You really think it's wise sending me out into the hinterland with a complete stranger, armed with deadly weapons?" Emma had asked.

"You'll have deadly weapons too, Swan," he reminded her, in an overly cheerful way. As if that made it any better. It's wasn't like she knew how to use them.

The archery range was a long cab ride out of the city, set among farmland dotted with harassed looking cows and unsightly power lines. And just as Killian had promised, there was a young woman waiting by the front gate, immediately recognizable by her tangle of red curls.

"You're Emma?" the girl asked with a sideways smile, stepping forward to shake Emma's hand.

"I am," she said, grasping her hand in a firm handshake. "And I guess you're the person who was crazy enough to answer Killian's email?"

"Aye. Seems like. You ever shoot an arrow before, Emma?" Her accent was astronomical. Emma liked to think she had grown accustomed to the soft burr of the natives, but this was something else altogether.

"Uh, no. A friend of mine, um... back home. She went through an archery phase in college. I was much more into the spectating side of things."

"Well, there's no time like th' present," the girl said, leading the way to what seemed to be a storage shed.

"You're not worried it might rain?" Emma called out, pointing out the gunmetal grey of the clouds that were fast gathering on the horizon.

The girl shrugged, not even bothering to turn around. "It'll pass. Weather changes fast here."

With that apparently cleared up, Emma had no choice but to follow after her.

The weather did change fast. One minute Emma was being lectured to about her terrible stance in relative sunshine, the next the rain was coming in sideways.

Merida, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned, still focused intently on her target.

"This doesn't bother you?" Emma called, having to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the tempest beating down on them.

"It's Scotland!" the girl shouted back in answer, not moving a millimeter.

"It's freezing!"

Apparently having realized the shine had rather worn off for Emma, the girl gave a huff of annoyance, and let her bow drop back to her side. It was only when she turned around and saw Emma huddled there, shivering, that her face softened a little.

"Alrigh' fine," she said, holding her hands up in defeat. "We'll getcha warmed up."

They ended up taking refuge in Merida's car, a battered green Ford probably about as old as Merida herself. Emma felt a momentary pang of longing for her own ancient Volkswagen, probably still sitting under a dusty tarp in Mary Margaret's garage.

Emma wouldn't have minded a bit of heating to help with the whole drying process, but Merida never moved to switch on the ignition, and she felt she should be grateful she'd even gotten this far. Instead they sat in awkward silence, watching the first flurries of snow begin to fall.

"It'll pass?" Emma repeated. She couldn't help it.

Merida didn't say a fucking word.

So? KJ

How'd it go? KJ

...

Swan? KJ

Emma? Are you alright? KJ

Emma, answer your bloody phone! KJ

I have a class. I'll call you later. ES

Are you alright, lass? KJ

I'll tell you later. ES

There was that sliver of a moment, right after someone picked up the phone. That tiny breath of silence, when your heart leapt into your throat, and your nerve endings were shot. Where anticipation and fear started duking it out in your lower belly.

Emma wanted to live in that moment forever. Anything to delay the inevitable. But that was the thing about time. It didn't care what you wanted.

"Emma?" She sounded breathless, like she'd been running to grab the phone.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma said, not quite managing to keep the wobble out of her voice.

"Sweetie?"

That was all it took. One word. The confirmation that someone, somewhere, out there, gave a shit. She felt the tears gathering even before she spoke.

"You were right. I'm not okay."

#cs ff #cs au #cs au ff #FindEmmaSwanAFriend

127 notes · View notes