#for now i need to go back and find a flat my own cs ive got like 6 weeks now to move from this place

[deeisace]

.

[mastersvisualjournalmclain]

Supervision 3/4  & The Varnished Truth

In my discussion of my supervision sessions here, I try to highlight one or two major themes, points, or ideas that really stood out for me and that I need to pay attention to, and more importantly, what that means to me, rather than provide a blow-by-blow recap of what happened or what was said.

Last week, my supervisor and I discussed the importance and quality of the wet plate portraits I’d done back in June and I showed her some digital test shots of still life work that I’d done and was emulating wet plate with these pictures to get a feel for how these might turn out. When she pressed me about why I wasn’t doing more with the portraits (which I really find satisfying for a variety of reasons), I said because I could actually do digital work in my flat right now, not rely on work that hadn’t been done in the course of this calendar term. This led us into a discussion of the appropriateness of using work that you’ve done previously and incorporating it into a work or project that is currently under production. I came to the realisation that this constraint (that word, again) that I was placing on myself, rather than any prescription from anywhere else, and most importantly, that it was really limiting and unhelpful in the progress of my work. This realisation, and the sense of release and relief that came with the understanding that I was imposing something on myself no one else was that was unrealistic, gave me a greater sense of freedom to explore the older work.

A second, more pragmatic topic emerged when we started talking about permission to utilise people’s images in the project. I am quite conscious of the ethical and legal dimensions of using someone’s image in my work. Having worked in high schools, I assiduously avoided taking pictures for my own use that even *might* include a student in the frame because I don’t want to deal with the hassles, and, to be honest, the appearance of taking a picture of a minor, especially if it might appear in a social media context. That said, when I’ve been working on wet plates, I’ve been working primarily in an open studio situation, where lots of artists have mini studios in a large building, and when I’m going to do a plate, I run around and find people willing to sit in front of the camera for about 5 minutes while I create the plate and shoot it. If someone doesn’t want to sit and have their picture taken, that’s usually the moment where they opt out. But I was resigned and dreading that now I would have to go back and ask for permission and potentially ask them to sign model releases to use the work in a public setting. But that’s the right thing to do. I was most concerned about an image I did of another artist’s kids (with her permission and their cooperation) which I feel is a very strong and really ‘works’ that I want to use might have to not be used if I couldn’t get permission from the parent and the kids themselves. Luckily, after sending out emails and texts, I’ve received positive responses for use from all the subjects bar one, whom I think I simply haven’t heard from yet because he doesn’t check email very often. But I do acknowledge not merely a legal obligation, but a moral one, to use people’s images with their approval, since we are making something together.

This week we discussed the contrast of old and new technologies on the work I’m doing. The portrait plates I’ve shot have been done with a ‘modern’ camera (an Intrepid MK IV Black Edition) which is made of 3D printed parts, but really, in wet plate photography, the camera is itself merely a lightproof box used to hold: A) the plate and B) the lens. These two elements are where the image really happens. The lenses I use are both quite old. One is a 300mm Ross Extra Rapid f/5.6 originally meant for 9x7 work. The other is an older, unmarked, likely French made lenses that is stamped by City Sales and Exchange of London. It’s a Petzval 150mm f/4 lens. It was possibly made as a magic lantern lens and repurposed as a camera lens by CS&E, who were notorious for doing just that. Both lenses have unique character to me; does is this ‘character’ objective, or is it because I know how old they are that I feel there is a unique feel to the images they produce? This is a question for philosophers to thrash out. Which they’ve been unable to do, convincingly. However, I do know that I love the images that they help to create and they both deliver images that are quite sharp in some areas with lovely bokeh in others. There is, I feel a warmth and a depth to them where the crystalline images I get with my mirrorless camera and its sharp autofocus feel a touch sterile. I am also keenly aware that I am using an historical object at a historical moment in human history. All of these portraits have been created using an old technique with mostly old equipment to capture people at an important moment in human history. And, while I’m not willing to ditch digital and go exclusively wet plate/film, there is a quality to the portraits that, no matter how much digital sorcery I use, can re-create the bespoke, one of a kind plate emerges from the tray of my wet plate rinses.

Another point that we discussed this week was two-fold. I have begun writing on my images. Wet plates are not pristine pieces. They are, like all people, flawed and imperfect. This is not a bad thing, to my thinking. I was working with a master furniture maker a couple of years ago on a project. He told me that so few people make a piece of furniture by hand any more that there are people who go out and look for flaws in pieces because imperfection is the only sure guarantee that the piece was made by hand. I like creating things. I like that the things I create are unique and one of a king. Yes, they can be scanned or photographed and those images can be reproduced, but the image itself, the sensory, tactile, olfactory image is alone in its existence. One of the things I love about wet plates, which, sadly will be missing from reviews is their smell. The final step of creating a plate is varnishing it. (See images below) Sandarac gum resin is mixed with lavender oil and alcohol to create this varnish. Even after drying, the aluminium plates retain a faint lavender smell which I find powerful in surfacing the memory of creating the plate. I would have dearly loved to be sitting in studio for a Review and pass around the small plates for people to see, touch and smell. Alas, another thing that 2020 has robbed us of.

The second element my supervisor and I discussed this week was my addition of text, in my own hand writing, to the digital images I am producing. I recently listened to an interview with Duane Michals and when I began researching him, I was struck by his incorporation of text into his images. I was also reflecting about a lecture from Critical Frameworks last semester that was a discussion of words as art. I wanted to place myself in the character of the people the images and get them to speak something to us as witnesses to COVID-19 and its myriad changes to our lives. I wanted these words to be live the images themselves, a little messy and imperfect. At the same time, I didn’t want to fill up the frame with words. I wanted to pair words up with the images that left things open to the viewers understanding and interpretation of the image. Remembering the lesson I learned last term, I didn’t want to fill up the borders of the images, which are being displayed digitally in November, and I wanted to give the viewer credit for being able to fill in the images with their own meanings about the correspondence between text and image. Showing her a few examples, my supervisor was quite supportive of the direction I’ve taken these images.

Finally, here are some pictures of me in the final step of making a wet plate, varnishing. The collodion emulsion on the plates needs to be durably sealed or else it will scratch and peel over time. The coat of varnish applied to them makes them quite durable. Tintypes from the 1850s on are still found today in attics, basements, etc after being stored in relatively abusive conditions that would have destroyed other photographic media and they’re little worse for wear. 

(Many thanks to Alex Pomnikow for taking these images while I was working.)

[ilovemesomekillianjones]

Happenstance 10/10 -                The Epilogue

Rated M                    5.6K                    ao3                    ffnet          

ch1     ch2     ch3     ch4     ch5     ch6     ch7     ch8     ch9      

A/N: **Please note, the epilogue is rated M, but you are able to skip over the M part if you wish, it is marked between these symbols: ~♥~ AND prefaced with the words: Earlier that morning.** 

Thank you @hookedonapirate for catching my mistakes and helping me fill in any details. Thank you @kmomof4 for always leaving me the best live reviews! Finally, a huge thanks to @csmarchmadness for lighting the fire under my ass to finish this story! I worked on this story every January for the last three years and when I saw CS March Madness posts this year, I joined, and I was able to finish the last 6 chapters in two weeks!

Here it is... the epilogue. I hope you enjoy the end. Thank you to everyone who has come along for this ride, the likes, kudos, reblogs, and reviews have been so appreciated. 

“Detective Jones and Nolan, this is dispatch, do you copy?”

Killian growled at the radio in his unit. What could they possibly want now? He and Dave had just finished with a nasty domestic abuse arrest that had gotten them in a bit of a scuffle. Long story short, Dave had hit and missed with his taser when he’d fired it at the offender who had Killian in a choke hold; he’d caught them both with the dart like electrodes.

He was sitting in the passenger seat of his car waiting for David to grab their gas station coffees. It was one in the morning, and he could swear he was still vibrating with the electric current Dave had zapped him with.

“Detective Jones and Nolan, this is dispatch, do you copy?”

“Bugger off,” he muttered as he picked up the handheld radio. “Aye, this is Jones, whatever you want, Booth, do it yourself.”

“Wish it were that easy, Jones. Your wife is in the hospital. Humbert and I will take over on patrol, you and David get over to St. Joseph Hospital. Now.”

Killian’s head spun as he processed Booth’s words. A host of feelings fleeted through him. “She can’t be, she’s at home in Storybrooke, why would she be in a hospital in Bangor?”

“What’s going on?” David asked as he entered the car and set two coffees into the cup holders.

“Nothing, mate, Booth is pranking me, or mistaken. He said Emma’s in the hospital.”

“Jones! Put Nolan on.”

David snatched the radio from Killian’s grip, which was tighter than he’d realized as a pit started to form in his stomach. Why was Booth being so persistent? Emma said she’d be at home tonight.

“Go for Nolan.”

“Nolan, your sister is at St. Joseph’s Hospital, get over there. I don’t know how serious it is, they called here looking for her spouse. And before you argue too, do you really think they have a different Emma Swan Jones? They won’t give any information to non-family members.”

“Copy,” David muttered, throwing the already running car into drive, and peeling out of the gas station parking lot.

Killian felt numb as a hundred questions and scenarios attacked him. Why was she in Bangor? What had happened? Was it a car accident? Was it a skip? Were Emma and their baby… No, he couldn’t let this mind go there as tears welled up in his eyes.

David reached his hand across the car and squeezed Killian’s shoulder. “They’re okay,” he told his friend, trying to sound confident. “They have to be.”

“I can’t lose her,” Killian mumbled as he fell into thought. She’d once told him that she was the luckiest person alive because the universe had sent him to her to heal her heart, after years without love. She was wrong though; Emma Swan was the love of his life, she’d made him whole again, healed his heart. Despite losing everyone he’d ever loved, he still knew he was the luckiest bastard alive, to have Emma Swan by his side and holding his hand through this thing called life.

It was the longest car ride of either of their lives, sirens blaring the whole way. David had no sooner pulled into the roundabout at the emergency room than Killian was jumping out of the car and sprinting into the dimly lit waiting room and up to the front desk.

“I’m Killian Jones, I was notified that my wife is here in the E.R., can you please take me to her?”

“What’s her name?”

“Emma Jones.”

“I have two Emma Jones’ listed in-”

“Middle name Swan, Emma Swan Jones.”

One moment, sir, let me find out where she is.”

After a few strokes of the keyboard, she told him Emma was in bay three and to proceed through the double doors to his left. David came rushing in asking if she was okay.

“I don’t know yet, I’m going in now.”

“I’m going to call Mary Margaret, I’ll wait out here. If you need me, send someone.” David wanted to see his sister, but he also knew that as a husband, Killian needed to go in first.

Killian nodded as he proceeded through the doors and looked for bay three. Momentarily disoriented by the fluorescently lit triage unit, Killian frantically twisted and turned looking for his wife.

“Can I help you? Sir?”

A quiet voice pulled Killian out of his panic long enough to ask for bay three. The woman in front of him signaled for him to follow her. When they arrived, she told Killian she would send a doctor over to brief him on Emma’s condition. Pulling back the curtain so he could enter, a sob caught in his throat as he gazed upon his wife’s unconscious form. Her face was bruised and puffy on the left side, and she had a cut along her right cheek bone. Bruises littered her arms and it was clear someone had put hands on her neck. His knees buckled and he staggered to one knee where he struggled to catch his breath.

“Mr. Jones? Nurse Rose, get a wheelchair please.”

“No… no, I’m all right,” Killian said. His head spun mercilessly, even as he mentally castigated his weakness. Inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth several times, he stood up on his own and asked the doctor to tell him what had happened.

“First, have a seat. There’s a chair here by your wife’s bed side. We can’t have both of you knocked out, now can we?”

“Aye, I suppose not.” Killian frowned at the doctor’s less than austere attitude as he sat down in the chair next to Emma’s bed and took her hand in his. She did not seem overly concerned for Emma’s current state. “Can you tell me what happened to my wife?”

“Let’s start with the good news. Your wife will be okay.”

“And the baby?”

“We are still running a few more tests to make sure everything is okay with the baby.”

Killian scrubbed a hand over his face, barely choking back a sob, and willed himself to stay positive.

“Mr. Jones, all the preliminary tests show your little bean is a-ok. Keep hope alive, it is a powerful entity.”

The tears overflowed his eyes when he registered the doctor’s choice of words. Keep hope alive. “The bad news?”

“The bad news is, we aren’t sure what happened. A 9-1-1 call was received about a woman being beaten in an alleyway. When the responding units arrived, she was already unconscious, along with a male who was also unconscious.”

“Where is he?” Killian growled. He didn’t care who it was or who saw. He’d murder the bastard.

“Not at this hospital,” she said quietly. “She did regain consciousness, but she was so overwrought, we had to sedate her to keep her and the baby safe. It will be at least another hour before the sedation wears off. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Is the sedative okay for the baby?”

“Yes, perfectly safe.”

“Thank you, doctor…”

“Dr. French,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you, Dr. French.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Jones. Now, I’m going to close the curtain over and pretend I didn’t tell you to be careful not to pull on any of her IVs when you climb into the bed.” She winked conspiratorially before closing the curtain.

Killian took off his jacket and laid it over the chair before pulling his phone out of his pocket to shoot David a quick text. He didn’t trust his voice enough to make a phone call. Even though he knew Emma would be okay, and most likely their baby too, the state she was in and not knowing what had happened to her overwhelmed him.

K: She’s going to be okay, she’s sedated right now, so we don’t know what happened yet. Why don’t you head home and come back in the morning with MM, I’m going to spend the night here.

As David sat in the waiting room reading Killian’s text, he debated whether or not to ask about the baby.   

K: The preliminary tests show that the baby is okay as well.

David blew out a breath of relief and the tightness in his chest abated a little.

D: I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with MM. Call me if anything changes or if you need anything.

K: Thanks mate.

Climbing into the bed, careful to avoid the IVs Dr. French hadn’t told him about, Killian securely pulled Emma into his arms. Silent tears streaked down his face as he prayed to the Gods that whatever had happened to her, it was something she could spring back from. As he remembered the doctors choice of words though, his silent tears became hushed, but anguished sobs, muffled in his wife’s hair. “Keep Hope alive, Emma,” he murmured.

~♥~

Earlier that morning…

The morning sun shone through the sliver where the curtains didn’t quite meet. It was just enough to annoyingly glare upon Killian’s face, bringing him into a wakefulness he couldn’t complain about, given the beautiful blonde in his bed and their life together. Stretching lazily, he rolled toward her and snuggled into her backside.

“Happy Second Trimester day, darling,” Killian hummed into his wife’s ear as he wrapped his arm around her still-flat stomach.

“That’s not even a thing,” she giggled sleepily. She’d never be over how much of a sap her husband truly was, especially now that they had a wee one - his words, not hers - on the way.

They’d known each other for ten years, and they’d been together for most of it. They’d been each other’s rock, they’d formed their own safety net together. He’d been her first lover and real, true friend, and she’d been his first everything. Despite the odds once again being against them, this time as high school sweethearts, they’d made it.

Sure, they would fight like every couple. She was too reckless with her job - a job borne of her need to bring justice to those scumbags who attempted to skip out on the punishment they deserved. Adversely, he was too overprotective; she was a grown woman for crying out loud - her words, not his. He overspent from time to time, because his Swan was never going to want for anything, and she was a little more frugal, because she didn’t want to work till she was a hundred years old. (I’d gladly work for 300 years if you were by my side, he’d told her, despite the stern look she was giving him over the new car he’d bought her for her 25th birthday. It wasn’t as though she didn’t love the red, Volkswagen Beetle, it just wasn’t a necessity.)  

“It is now, I’m making it a thing. How shall we celebrate? Breakfast in bed, a stroll along the beach, maternity clothes shopping spree?”

Emma huffed loudly and slapped his hand which was caressing her stomach. “I do not need new clothes. My jeans still fit perfectly... pretty much.”

Killian laughed at her pouty protest. “I meant for the future, Swan. At some point you will start to show. I for one cannot wait to see how the product of our love rounds out your belly.”

“God, you are such a sap. And you are also the only man in the history of men who wants his wife to gain weight.”

“Love, I just mean I think motherhood is going to look hot on you, just like everything else does.”

“I’m not going to look so hot when I’m thirty pounds heavier, my hands, feet, and ankles are swollen, and I can’t get out of bed or a chair without looking like a beached whale.”

He chuckled, gently thrusting his hips against her naked butt. “I don’t think there’s much you could do to make me not want you.”

Emma shivered in his warm embrace, pressing back into him. They were going to have to start wearing clothes to bed once this baby came along. “I am such a lucky girl.” She wasn’t even being sarcastic, either. Despite the lack of affection in her young life, she felt as if she was cared for more now than anyone she knew. It was like Killian Jones had been set in her path as the universe’s way of saying, “Sorry your childhood wasn’t the greatest, we fucked up, but guess what? We have the best human on earth and we are sending him your way.” She once told him this, and his only response was to say it was he who had been blessed to have found her.

Even after ten years, she still marveled at the little things, like how Killian’s accent still hung on, especially when he was angry or turned on, much to her delight. Like how he would immediately have ice ready for her after a particularly rough takedown of a skip. Or how even though he didn’t love what she did for a living, because it was dangerous, he had never asked her to quit.

And contrary to the belief that passion faded over time, she marveled at how he could never get enough of her, nor could she get enough of him. She had contemplated if it was because they’d learned together, they’d discovered each nuance of the other over the span of their relationship and the result was nothing short of perfection. Who would ever be able to get enough of that?

A thrill shot through her and all the way down to her core as Killian latched his lips onto the sensitive flesh of her neck. Sucking gently so her skin stood at attention, he glided his hand up her sternum to cup her breast. “Are you tender today?” he whispered in her ear, once again sending a shiver coursing through her body.

“No, baby, that feels good.” Her nipples were pebbling before he’d even paid them any attention and she shifted her hips back against his growing erection, eager to have him hard and filling her up.

Killian scooped his arm under her back, quickly turning Emma onto her back so he could properly worship her body. Pressing his lips to hers he sucked along her bottom lip until her tongue touched along his lips letting him know she wanted to taste him. “Morning breath,” he warned.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, fervently attacking his mouth. Emma carded both hands into his thick hair, massaging his scalp lovingly.

He just laughed into their kiss and tightened his hold around her back. He loved her like this - wanting and a little impatient.

“I mean it is fine, right? Or am I grossing you out?” she asked as they broke for air.

Killian just smiled and resumed making out with his wife like they were teenagers in love, showing her instead of telling her. Caressing one breast and then the other, he rolled each nipple gently between his fingertips, causing breathy moans to spill into their kiss, and her grip to tighten in his hair as her arousal intensified.

“Touch me.”

“Mmmm, I am touching you.”

“Killian,” she whined, “touch me here.” She removed his hand from her breasts and placed it at the juncture of her thighs. Spreading her legs for him she bit down on her bottom lip with a playful smirk. “Make me come with your fingers.”

“Anything for you, love.” His fingers ghosted over her slit, and his cock jumped as he felt her wetness already flowing from her folds. “Gods above, were you dreaming before I woke you?”

“No babe, that’s all you.”

Killian cocked an eyebrow and smirked devilishly, all while positively preening under her praise. Wetting his fingertips with her arousal he easily slipped two fingers inside her warm walls. “I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock, all wet and warm. Fuck, your cunt is so perfect, Emma.” Setting a punishing pace from the start, he endeavored to make her come quickly so he could bury himself in her repeatedly. “Play with your breasts, love, show me.”

Emma’s body shook with desire as he spoke into her ear between nips at her lobe. He was thrusting his thick fingers into her just the way he knew she liked, rubbing along her walls in the place he’d found and always worshipped. His thumb pulsed against her clit and she did as he bid, tweaking her nipples to the rhythm of his movements as he expertly pleasured her. “I want your cock, Killian, I’m so close, almost…” And then she was there, arching her back off the bed and crying out his name.

Gods, she was beautiful when she peaked, her body flushed and heaving, hair askew, and eyes wild with love and desire. Climbing between her legs, he settled against her body so they were connected, skin to skin at every possible point. He kissed her thoroughly even as her breathing was still ragged. Their tongues came together in a pulsating rhythm, sliding and coiling together as a fierce need consumed Killian. “I need you, Emma.”

She reached between them and wrapped her hand around him, guiding the head of his cock through her wetness. Biting down on her lip in anticipation, Emma slowly pumped her fist up and down his length, coating him with her juices. His broken groans of pleasure made their way from deep in his throat as he rested his forehead against hers with his eyes screwed shut in tortured gratification. She couldn’t think of a more gorgeous view than when he was being pleasured. Fresh arousal tickled the edges of her opening and she finally lined him up at her entrance. “Take me.”

Killian plunged deep inside her as soon as the words left her mouth, and both of them inhaled sharply at the desired sensation. As Emma adjusted to the welcomed penetration and angle, she locked her legs around his back and brought him down for a sweet kiss. Killian reigned in his ardor as he settled into this most cherished place to be, in her arms and buried inside her. Even as they continued to kiss, Killian slowly withdrew and sank back into her, leisurely making love to his wife. Her walls were still thrumming with her earlier climax, adding to the massage against his length each time he sheathed himself.

Emma eventually snaked her hand down to his ass and squeezed before pushing him into her, silently asking him for harder. She loved the feel of his cock, but the building pressure was killing her, she wanted to come again. Perhaps she was being selfish, depriving Killian of a slow-

Nope, he needed it too, she realized as he immediately complied with her silent gesture.

The moment he felt Emma’s request for harder, faster, more, he snapped his hips into hers. He loved slow and gentle, but right now he needed release. Something about the way she’d kissed him all morning, pulled at his hair, and demanded he make her come with his fingers had him needing to come deep inside her. He paused for a moment to get up on his knees and pull her thighs around him once more. Gripping her hips possessively, he quickly withdrew and then slammed back home.

“Yes, Killian,” she moaned.

He fucked into her aggressively, reading exactly what she wanted from the open book she always was. She was close, but he might be closer, and that would be bad form. Releasing her left hip, he teased her clit in circles with his thumb and was rewarded swiftly with the measured squeeze of her walls sucking his cock deeper into her depths. Killian barely registered her cries of ecstasy as his own rapture took hold of him. The sudden release of pressure in his balls as he came with a grunt sent a shock of bliss throughout his body; he felt weightless and grounded all at once. In that single moment he felt virile and vulnerable, domineering and submissive, it was a chaotic rush of emotions many times over when he came with Emma.

Turning them to their sides before they snuggled in a heap of well-used, limp muscles, Killian pulled her into his side. It was a rare morning when they were both home and could bask in the aftermath without one or both of them having to rush off to work.

“So what shall we do next for T2 day?”

Emma laughed out loud, because of course he would already have a name for this… made-up holiday of his. “How about we sleep a little more? Then you take us out to lunch?” Her belly decided to chime in on the discussion by growling rather obnoxiously.

“It sounds as if she wants to eat now, rather than sleep more.”

“She?”

“Aye.”

“How do you know we’re not having a boy.”

Killian thought for a moment before just going with the honest truth, even if it was a bit embarrassing. “Because ever since I started imagining having babies with you, I’ve always thought we would have a little girl first. And exactly one week before you told me you were pregnant, I dreamed we had a little girl. She had very curly, dark brown hair, and her mother’s compelling green eyes. We named her after something neither of us grew up with much of, and we gave her your middle name, Hope Swan Jones.”

Tears welled in Emma’s eyes as she listened to her husband. He really was the biggest sap, and the sweetest, and the best. “I love you, Killian Jones. And even if this one isn’t a girl, we are going to keep having babies until we have a girl so we can name her Hope Swan Jones.” She giggled as Killian’s smile lit up his whole face right before he pulled her close and sprinkled kisses to her cheeks, lips, and neck.

“And I love you, Emma Jones.”

~♥~

He slept restlessly over the next couple of hours. The constant hum of the hustle and bustle made any sort of real rest impossible, and each time a monitor sounded an alarm, he jumped, afraid it could be the one monitoring their baby’s heartbeat.

The next noise that brought him into wakefulness, though heartbreaking, was a welcome sound, for it meant Emma was awake. His wife’s soft cries and words broke him, and his tears started anew. “What happened, Emma?” he whispered.

“I’m sorry, Killian. It’s all my fault.”

“Shhh, love,” he soothed her, firming his arms around her and rubbing her back. “That sound is your monitor, and if you get all worked up, they’ll have to sedate you again.”

Nodding in understanding, she sniffled and tried to inhale deeply through the ragged sobs. “Is the baby...” Emma couldn’t even finish her sentence before she started bawling again.

“The doctors believe she is okay, Swan. Please, tell me what happened. What’s your fault?”

“I went after a skip, a dangerous one.”

“Bloody Hell, Emma.” Killian gritted his teeth. He’d promised himself years ago he’d never ask her to give up her job, it was part of who she was, and it had started as part of a healing process when Neal had jumped bail. But now, seeing her battered and bruised, their baby’s life endangered, he was having a hard time upholding his promise.

“You won’t have to ask me to quit. I’m going to turn in my resignation to the agency as soon as I am out of here. Killian, I am so sorry I put her life in danger, can you forgive me?” Emma ran her hand over her belly, sending up a silent prayer that their baby was all right.

Placing his hand over hers, Killian looked into her eyes, “Course I do, love. I just want you to be safe. You gave me the scare of my life. I need you, Emma.” Though the words were the same as the ones he’d whispered to her in bed the previous morning, they carried such a heavier connotation.

“I promise I will never do anything so stupid ever again.”

“What happened?”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to stay calm.”

“Just tell me.”

“Promise me first.”

“I can’t make any promises. To break them would be bad form…” A sinking feeling came over Killian along with a sense of déjà vu. They’d had this same conversation before, but so help him if it was the same bloody prick who’d fucked with Emma again. His eyes narrowed and clouded with barely concealed rage. “Tell me it wasn’t him, Swan.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized meekly. “I got a tip that he was stateside again, in Maine to boot. I couldn’t pass up the chance to put him away for good.”

Killian scrubbed a hand over his jaw as he tried to reign in his emotions. Fear and anger were a combination that had Killian desperately seeking control from anywhere as his imagination ran rampant. “Do you realize what could have happened?” he fumed, attempting to keep his voice level. “Emma, he’s not just some skip. He’s someone you set up, someone who has a vendetta against you. Do you really think he’s above murder to avoid going to prison?”

“No, I don’t,” she whispered. “He tried.”

“What do you mean he tried?”

“He tried to kill me. I thought I was being so careful, but somehow he must have spotted me. He dragged me out of my car and into an alley before I even had a chance to spot him.” She raced through the rest of the story, including how he’d tried to stab her, but she was able to get the upper hand, turning his own weapon on him, as if saying it quickly would hurt less.

Killian held his wife tighter, wishing he could take away what had happened to her. He felt murderous, he would kill Neal with his bare hands if ever given the opportunity. Since he wasn’t leaving this hospital right now though, it’d have to wait. “You’re safe now, Swan,” he soothed. “I promise, he will never lay his hands on you again.”

“Good morning, Jones family,” Dr. French greeted them, throwing back the curtains. “Are you feeling okay, Mrs. Jones? Your monitor is showing some elevated stress levels.”

“I was just telling Killian what happened to me last night.”

“Ah, still a little frightened after your run in?” she questioned.

Emma nodded, averting her eyes, still ashamed she’d made such an error in judgement.

“Well, if it offers you any piece of mind, I called my friend over at Northern Light Hospital, where your attacker was taken, and she told me he was placed under arrest, and after being treated for blood loss, he was taken away. It turns out there were several warrants out for his arrest, some as old as ten years ago.”

Emma breathed a sigh of relief and laid her head against Killian’s chest. “It does, thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome. But, that’s not where the good news ends. All the tests are back and Baby Jones is healthy.”

“Thank the gods,” Killian murmured as he and Emma both shed a few happy tears. He stroked the back of Emma’s head as she apologized again, trying to convey to her that it was okay.

“Now, I trust you’ll not be finding yourself in any more dangerous situations, at least for the duration of your pregnancy?” the doctor asked.

“No ma’am, early retirement. I’m never going to put our precious baby girl in danger again,” Emma answered as she smoothed her hand over her stomach.

“Then I just have a few forms to fill out and you’ll be free to go. The nurse will bring in your discharge papers shortly.”

Killian climbed off the bed and extended his hand toward the doctor, shaking her hand. “Thank you for everything Dr. French. Any chance your colleague told you where Emma’s attacker was escorted?”

“Killian!” Emma scolded.

“What, love? I only wish to call the unit he was taken to, you know, to make sure he won’t be released on bail again, and maybe find out how long he’s looking at. And if they choose to rough him up for attacking the wife of a fellow officer, so be it.”

“Yeah right, you’re not fooling anyone, buddy.” Emma playfully rolled her eyes.

“I’m afraid she didn’t disclose those details. But my boyfriend, Detective Will Scarlet, might have received a knife wound victim at county intake earlier this morning.”

“Thanks, lass. I appreciate the tip.”

“Any man who does what he did to a pregnant woman deserves every karmic disaster in his path. Take care Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open at the devilish twinkle in Dr. French’s eyes, while Killian just smirked.

“Thank you, doctor,” they said in unison.

After the doctor left, Killian sat back down at Emma’s side and she took his hands in hers. “I don’t want you to risk your career to… avenge me. You’re not really going to go after him, are you?” Emma understood the desire to do so, but Killian had never been a perpetrator of gratuitous violence, and she didn’t want him to become one on her account.

“Although every part of me wants to pummel him, and he’d bloody well deserve it, I made myself a promise years ago that I would never lose control of myself the way I did when I beat Gold to a pulp. I almost broke that promise once, and you were there to bring me back from the edge, I’m not going to let it happen again. I have no intention of seeking revenge, at least not in a physical fashion, although I do fully intend to mention his latest crime against a fellow officer’s wife, they can do what they like with that information.”

Emma cracked a smile; she couldn’t deny him his freedom of speech. And she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty about it either. Killian and Dr. French were both right - Neal deserved any misfortune coming his way. “I can handle that.”

“I really do just want to make sure the arresting unit knows about his past bail jump and subsequent trip out of the country. Perhaps if he’s denied bail, he will actually get served the justice he deserves.” He kissed her cheek, the one that wasn’t bruised, before asking her a question of his own. “Do you really mean to put in your resignation?”

“Yes, I do. I took this job because of a need to make a difference, to make sure that justice was served, even to those cowards that would run away. I’ve been at it for ten years, putting my safety on the line, and now it’s time for me to move on; I’m ready to move on. We’re going to start a family, you, me, and our baby girl.”

A brilliant smile spread across Killian’s lips, making his dimples show and his eyes crinkle. Leaning forward he rested his forehead on hers and palmed her cheek. “I know what your job means to you, I know why you had to do it, and though I’d never have asked you to quit, I’m so happy you’ve decided to resign. I’ll feel so much better knowing you’re not out chasing down the scum of the earth.”

“What about you, Detective? It’s not like you’re in the safest line of work either.”

“Love, we patrol the streets of Storybrooke. You travel to some of the biggest cities on the east coast, where criminals actually go to hideout.” Although Storybrooke had grown over the past ten years, it was still nothing like Portland or Bangor. Most of their crimes were misdemeanors, with the occasional felony. Murder wasn’t exactly running rampant in their small town. “The most dangerous person in Storybrooke is Dave. Did I tell you that bloody wanker tasered me yesterday?”

“What?” Emma threw her head back, bursting into laughter. “How? Why?”

Killian put on his pout as his wife laughed at him. “Are you really just going to laugh at my pain?”

“Oh babe, I’m sorry. Tell me all about it,” she coddled.

Killian just huffed at her obviously sarcastic mollycoddling. “Speaking of Dave, let me text him and let him know he can bring Mary Margaret to the house instead of here. They want to see you’re okay.”

Before he could tell his tale, the nurse walked in to go over the care instructions for the laceration on Emma’s cheek, and what to watch for over the next forty-eight hours. Once they’d finished signing all the paperwork the nurse officially released Emma. Her body was a little tender as Killian helped her dress, so when the mandatory wheelchair arrived to wheel her out of the hospital, she didn’t complain… too much.

Six months later, Emma and Killian found themselves back in a hospital room. This one was much closer to home and for a much happier reason. The room was full of flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals - all gifts to welcome their new baby girl into the world. Just as Killian had predicted, they had a baby girl. And just like in his dream, they named her Hope Swan Jones; she had a head full of dark brown hair, like her daddy, and clear green eyes just like her mommy. In two lives where love had once been all too rare, Emma and Killian now found themselves with hearts full of love as they marveled at the newborn snuggled between them.

Thanks ladies for letting me tag you, I hope you enjoyed it!

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