#killian as a bookstore owner

[searchingwardrobes]

No Wives, No Mothers, No Lovers: 4/7

Two months since the last update is actually not that bad for me, haha. Thank you to everyone who is sticking with this fic. And Marta, I have a little surprise for you in this chapter. I hope you like the character I introduce here - she should sound familiar ;)

Summary:   He must be hallucinating. Because Emma Swan is supposed to be in Miami, Florida where he left her. Emma Swan isn’t supposed to be on this rocky stretch of beach, completely drenched, and wearing a ball gown of all things. A Lieutenant Duckling AU (sort of) in which Emma is a siren who isn’t supposed to fall in love with a human.  

Length: about 3k in this chapter

Rated: T

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three

Also on Ao3

Tagging (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed): @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx @winterbythesea @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @iverna @jonesfandomfanatic​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​

Emma and Killian dance to a string of fifties rock and roll songs as rain pelts the roof of the studio. She accepts the slow dances easily now, tucked against him with her cheek against his shoulder. The rain begins to slow as they sway to “Earth Angel.”

“Emma,” Killian says softly against her hair.

She lifts her gaze to his, her expression tender and relaxed. 

“There’s somewhere else I wanted to take you, if that’s okay. The rain’s not so bad now.”

She smiles at him as she nods her head. He turns off the music, pockets his phone, and then the two of them gather up the remains of their lunch. Killian finds an abandoned umbrella in a dusty corner, and he exits the studio with Emma on his arm. She leans in close to keep herself out of the rain. It’s still coming down steadily, but the wind has died down. 

Their destination is only two storefronts away from the dance studio. Killian opens the door for Emma, and a bell jingles as she dashes in out of the rain. Killian follows, shaking the raindrops from the umbrella. The bookstore is cozy and warm, and the proprietress comes towards them with an eager smile. 

“Killian Jones, what a pleasure on such a gloomy day.”

“Marta,” Killian greets her, “I’m showing my friend here around Storybrooke. No tour is complete without visiting Once Upon a Time.” 

Marta blushes and waves away his compliment. “That’s very sweet of you.” Then she turns to Emma. “Introduce me to your friend.”

“Marta, this is Emma, a friend from college. Emma, this is Marta, owner of the best bookstore in the world. She was the first friend I made when I came to this town as a lonely little boy. She introduced me to Neverland, Narnia, Middle Earth, and a dozen other magical realms.”

A beaming smile fills Marta’s face. “Killian devoured books as quickly as I could recommend them. Are you a fellow book lover, Emma?”

Emma scribbles on her notepad, and Killian explains to Marta that she is mute but can still hear. The woman takes it in stride as she reads what Emma has jotted down. 

“You met Killian at the library?” Marta laughs. “Well, that definitely is a good sign.” Then she leans conspiratorially towards Killian. “I wouldn’t let her go if I were you.”

Killian clears his throat awkwardly as he feels his face warm. “Well, um, I wanted to show Emma some of my favorite spots in the store.”

“Sure, sure, go right ahead. I’ll be around if you need me.”

“Thank you, Marta.”

The woman returns behind the counter, and Killian leads Emma to the back of the store with a gentle hand to the small of her back. It’s the children’s section, and one corner of it is filled with a giant wooden tree covered in fabric leaves. A hole is cut in the base of the tree, and inside are piles of pillows. Fairy lights are strung inside to provide light for reading. He motions for Emma to crouch down with him and crawl inside. It’s a tighter fit than it was for him as a child, and he and Emma’s feet stick out of the hole. 

“I spent hours here when we first moved to Storybrooke,” he explains. “I was small for my age, a bit of a nerd, and an outsider on top of everything else. I ran away from some bullies one day on my walk home from school and hid from them inside this tree. When I dared to peek out, Marta was there with a copy of Peter Pan and assurances that no one would bother me.”

Emma jots quickly on her notepad. How old were you?

“Seven. My mother left my father with nothing but the shirts on our backs. My grandfather told her not to run off with Brennan Jones, that he couldn’t be trusted, but she did it anyway. So when she brought us to Storybrooke, her hometown, she wasn’t sure my grandfather would let us stay. But he did.”

What was he like?

“A man of few words, a bit gruff, but kind. He’s the one who taught Liam and I to sail and to fish. Losing him was my first experience with real grief. I was twelve.”

I’m so sorry.

Killian lowers his gaze to his lap for a moment, unsure how to receive Emma’s sincere gaze and scribbled sentiments. Then he inhales, runs a hand through his hair, and exhales. He flashes Emma his most charming grin.

“But enough about me, Swan. I want to hear all about you. Tell me a story - about yourself.”

Emma’s brow furrows as she makes a sweeping gesture towards her notepad. Killian gently takes it from, as well as the pen, and sets it aside. 

“I want you to speak freely. I realize I only know a random word here and there in ASL, but I want to hear you. Tell me a story, Emma, please?”

She rolls her eyes at his pleading but begins to sign anyway. She’s hesitant at first, but then she seems to lose herself in the story she’s telling. Her hands move rapidly, and her face is expressive. Sometimes her movements are harsh and jerking, sometimes rapid and exuberant, and other times flowing and melancholy. Her eyes at times sparkle with joy, then other times flood with the deepest sadness. At the end she points at him, and a peaceful smile lifts the corners of her mouth. Then she drops her arms to her sides and shrugs a bit sheepishly. 

“That was beautiful,” he whispers. “I had no idea what you were saying, and yet I could feel the ups and downs of your emotions.”

A single tear slips down Emma’s cheek, and he reaches up gently to wipe it away with his thumb. His hand lingers there, tracing the line of her jaw. Emma gently grasps his wrist in both her hands and leans into his touch. The moment stretches, filled with a deep sense of peace even as Killian’s heart pounds in his chest. She takes the hand cupping her cheek and presses it to where her own heart beats a steady rhythm. He isn’t sure how, but he understands completely. She’s thanking him for seeing her, for hearing her in a way that goes beyond words. He feels as if he’s tethered to her, a thin yet strong cord binding his heart to hers. It’s so overwhelming, he has to break the tension. He waggles his eyebrows at her teasingly. 

“And I also think you said something about me there at the end? How I’m devastatingly handsome?” 

Emma shakes her head, but her smile is teasing. She releases his hand and leans back against the pillows. 

“So, Swan? Are you ready to have the best clam chowder in the entire state of Maine?”

***********************************************************

“What do you mean you’ve never had seafood?” Killian can’t keep the incredulity out of 

his voice as he leans back in a booth at Smee’s Seafood Shack. “You lived in Miami for two years, didn’t you?”

Emma shrugs, her arms crossed atop the laminated menu.

Killian shakes his head. “You can’t live in a coastal town for any length of time and not have seafood Swan.” Then he frowns. “Wait, you’re not allergic are you?”

Emma shakes her head then scribbles on her notepad. 

I guess it would affect my friendship with a fisherman if I was allergic to seafood, wouldn’t it? 

“Of course not,” Killian assures, “but, uh . . . it would make this a really bad choice for dinner.”

Not allergic. It just felt  - Emma pauses, chewing on her bottom lip in a very distracting way - weird. I guess?

“Why would it be weird?”

Because they swim, I guess. And aren’t sea creatures rubbery? And salty?

Killian laughs, at the swimming comment at least. The rubbery and salty thing he’s heard before. 

“As to the texture, it depends on what seafood you eat. As for the salt, I think that has more to do with how it’s cooked.” 

I’m willing to try something new. You choose.

Since he isn’t sure what type of fish Emma, as a novice, will enjoy, he gets an assortment: clam chowder and crab cakes for appetizers, and fried cod filets and grilled salmon for the main course. Along with the sides, it's a lot of food, but Killian has barely spent a dime since coming home, and Smee always gives the Jones brothers a discount anyway, since they supply most of his “catches of the day.”

To Killian’s delight, Emma tries all of it, and the look on her face says she finds it all delicious, too. The clam chowder is definitely her favorite, while - according to the note she scribbles - the salmon is just “okay.” They share a slice of cheesecake to end the meal, and Emma leans back in her chair with a look of sleepy satisfaction. 

“Told you,” he can’t help saying with a wink. 

The napkin she throws at him is worth it. 

************************************************************************

The rain is long gone as Killian and Emma stroll down the boardwalk away from the restaurant. Their hands brush as they walk, and he isn’t sure who moved first, but soon their fingers are laced together. Emma steps closer, loops her other arm through his, and rests her head on his shoulder. He turns to brush his lips across her temple. 

“There’s one more place I want to take you, Emma.” 

Their destination is just outside of town, and the two of them fall into comfortable silence as they walk. That’s one thing he’s always enjoyed about being around Emma: quiet isn’t awkward. It’s not just her muteness, either. It’s a sense of belonging, as odd as that seems. 

“Here it is,” Killian says softly into the night.

He turns her to face the blue, beach-side Victorian. The moon is full, the stars are a bright splash across the dark blue sky, and moonbeams reflect off the surf behind the house. All of it make the house look as if it were lit up; dazzling to behold. Emma lets go of his arm and steps forward, running her hand along the white picket fence in front and gazing up at the house in wonder. 

“It was my grandfather’s,” Killian explains. “This was where we lived when I first moved to Storybrooke.”

He guides her through the low front gate and up the porch steps. Emma’s eyes widen as he takes a key from his pocket. 

“The house is mine and Liam’s now,” he explains to her. “He left it to my mother when he passed, and now she’s left it to us.”

Killian unlocks and opens the front door, then guides Emma inside. The house is completely furnished, including a telescope set up in front of the living room’s bay window. 

“It’s an Airbnb right now,” Killian explains, “while we figure out what to do with the place. The memories are just too painful right now to live in it.”

He isn’t sure what Emma is thinking as she slowly walks through the dark and silent living room, her hands ghosting along the furniture. He flips on a lamp, giving them a bit more light, but anything more somehow feels wrong. It’s as if they’re both holding their breath in a sacred space. 

Killian shows her the kitchen, then the upstairs with an impressive four bedrooms and three bathrooms. The master is the most jaw-dropping with its own set of bay windows. They take the narrow stairs up to the finished attic as well, and Emma drops onto the window seat of the one bedroom with a smile of delight. 

“I don’t know if you noticed from outside,” he tells her, “but this is an actual turret. Like a castle for a princess or something. As a matter of fact, this was my mother’s room as a teenager. They finished it for her.”

Killian guides Emma back downstairs to the ground floor, and then out the back to the wrap-around porch. The sea is only a short pebbled path away, and he guides her down the steps and down to the end of the path. They’re still standing just at the edge of the beach where the sea grass tickles their ankles when Killian turns her gently to face him, taking both her hands in his. 

“Emma, there’s a reason I brought you here tonight. I know communicating isn’t easy, but I feel like you and I still understand one another. I may not know where you come from, who you are, or  . . . what you are . . .”

That last bit was a gamble, he knows. The way Emma’s head snaps up and her eyes widen in shock tells him that his suspicions are correct. She pulls away a little, but he holds more tightly to her hands.

“And I won’t ask you to tell me, Emma, don’t worry. But I can see that you’re sad. You’re scared too, aren’t you?”

She lowers her gaze to the sea grass, and he has to gently lift her chin so their eyes meet once again. 

“Whatever you’re afraid of, Emma, I want you to have a safe place to run to. That’s why I brought you here. I get the feeling you have to go soon, but this place is here whenever you need a haven. No questions asked. Come and go as you please.”

Emma’s mouth opens in a silent gasp, and she blinks at a sudden moisture in her eyes. He steps forward and cups her face in his hands. 

“We’re connected, Emma. Can’t you feel it? But I won’t expect of you what you can’t give. So this house is yours. I’ll take it off Airbnb. No one will be here to bother you, I promise.” His thumbs caress her cheeks as a smile lifts his lips. “Though I do hope you’ll let me know whenever you’re in town.”

The tears finally spill onto her cheeks, and Killian can no longer resist the pull he feels towards her. He lowers his face and presses his lips to hers. Emma slides her hands up his chest and around his neck as she tilts her head and parts her lips for him. The kiss is both tender and deep with an edge of hunger. Killian buries his fingers in her soft hair as he swipes his tongue against hers. She responds with eagerness, and Killian kisses her more aggressively, drinking her deeply, though he can never get enough of her. 

When they finally part, lips swollen and hair mussed, Emma breathes out one word: “Wow.”

His mind has barely registered that Emma actually spoke when it’s taken over completely by the melody of Emma’s voice. It’s the most enchanting sound he’s ever heard, leaving an ache in his heart for only one thing: the sea. 

He turns toward the crashing waves and begins walking towards them. If he doesn’t reach the water, he’ll die, he’s sure of it. He hears Emma’s voice again beside him, her hands yanking at him frantically. 

“Killian! Killian, wake up! Stop, Killian! No! No, please no!”

Her words are nonsensical to him, though. All he can hear is her music. Calling, calling, calling him out to sea. He knows she’s crying and begging, but he doesn’t understand why. He needs the ocean more than his next breath. 

“I’m sorry, Killian, please, please snap out of it! Don’t go, please don’t go!”

It’s driving him mad now, the way she’s trying to stop him. Why would she? The sea is what he wants, what he desperately needs. He shrugs Emma off, and she falls to her backside in the sand. The surf is crashing against his knees now, but it isn’t enough. The ocean wants to embrace him completely, and he has no desire to fight it.

He plunges beneath the cold waves. The tide is strong, and it sucks him under. Something is dragging him down, down, into the depths. From the dark recesses of his mind, something primal fights back. He doesn’t want to die. 

Then Emma is there, wrapping her arms around him and trying to pull him up to the surface. Funny, he can hear her perfectly even though they’re underwater. She’s crying and begging, but she isn’t begging Killian anymore. 

“Save him,” she pleads, “save him, and I’ll do anything.”

He isn’t sure who she’s talking to, but he swears he feels something powerful and angry swirl around him. 

I don’t want to die, he thinks again. But the ocean is no longer embracing him; it’s crushing him. Then everything goes black. 

[moonbeamnights]

Art and Love

Tropetember Day 4: Retail AU

@tropetember

Summary: Milah goes shopping for a sketchbook and finds true love.

Read on AO3

Milah had been eagerly awaiting the chance to check out the art supply store that had just opened in town. She finally finds the time on the last day of the grand opening sale.

The store’s atmosphere is cozy, more like a cutesy cafe or a quaint bookstore than the chain retailer craft stores she’s used to shopping at. There are chairs and tables set up for artists to hang out and a nautical theme to the decorations on the check out counter.

The dark-haired man behind said counter looks up when she enters, and Milah finds herself looking into the most beautiful blue eyes she’s ever seen.

“Welcome in,” the man says, smiling brightly. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Um...” Milah glances down the nearest aisle, hoping he hadn’t realized she’d been staring. “I’m just looking for a sketchbook.” She can hear the awkward nerves in her own voice, and she wishes she had made a better first impression.

“‘Just’ a sketchbook?” he says playfully. “No need to undersell yourself. Drawing’s an impressive skill.”

Milah blushes. Usually, she hates for people to notice her nervousness and call attention to it. But this man had somehow done so in a way that made her feel more at ease, and slipped in a compliment to top it off.

The man introduces himself as Killian Jones, the owner of the store. As she follows him further into the building, he tells her about the different products he stocks and the inspiration behind his business – art therapy that had helped him after he got out of the navy and lost his left hand. Milah couldn’t imagine being so forward about her own mental health with a friend let alone a stranger, and she’s more than a little impressed that he’s so unashamed by what she would deem oversharing.

“Here we are – sketchbooks,” Killian says at last, and Milah is almost disappointed to have reached their destination. The tour of the store had felt more like a friendly conversation than a sales pitch.

“Thank you,” she says and starts searching the self for the sketchbook she wants, secretively watching Killian as he walks away.

--

Milah needs a new eraser. Then a different color marker. Then new colored pencils. Then she runs out of red paint and the blue is getting low, too, but she decides not to replace it until she absolutely has to. It’s not a financial issue (not this time, at least, she’s been squirreling away money). She spreads out her trips to the art supply store, only ever buying one thing at a time, because of Killian.

He always finds the time to talk with her (and when he’s busy she waits around to give him the chance). It’s more than the usual customer service chatter, or at least she thinks it is. She supposes Killian could just be an excessively friendly person. But if he pays this much attention to anyone else, she hasn’t noticed it. And she can’t help the jittery anticipation that she feels driving to his store, the smile that lights up her face when he catches sight of her with those dazzling blue eyes. Or, most importantly, the warmth and happiness she feels in his presence.

--

“I’m going to set up a showcase for local artists’ work,” Killian says one day. “Would you like to bring in some of your drawings?”

Milah loves the idea, even likes the idea of being part of it. But she’s self-conscious. Her art is good on a technical level, she knows that, but she’s not sure if the subject matter is good enough to display. She draws mostly fantasy – mythical creatures and knights rescuing princesses and the like – and her husband always tells her it’s “childish”.

“I’ll bring some in to show you, and you can decide if you still want them.”

Killian makes her feel worthwhile – like she’s someone worth talking to, like her hobby isn’t frivolous. He’s been testing her assumptions about herself practically since they met and now she’ll do some testing of her own. Afterall, if she likes her drawings, why shouldn’t anyone else?

Despite her earlier confidence, Milah almost backs out of the showcase. She’s put together a portfolio of the least whimsical of her drawings that she’s proud enough of to display. Still, the morning that she’s supposed to show the portfolio to Killian, she wakes with her stomach in a knot of nerves, worrying that it’s not presentable enough. She doesn’t know how she could bear it if Killian looked down on her because he didn’t like her art. She likes him too much for that.

She sits with Killian in the front of the store so he can keep an eye on the register. The store is quiet, though, and he flips through her drawings uninterrupted. He points out something he likes in nearly every picture, occasionally asking her little questions about the ideas behind them.

“These are all very good,” he says when he’s done. He picks a few for the showcase – a female knight facing down a dragon, a werewolf howling under the light of the full moon, a castle in a vibrant forest landscape – then says something Milah never would have expected. “You could make good money with a talent like this.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s thought before about selling her art. The extra money would make her life a lot easier. But “unmarketable” was another of her husband’s favorite ways to describe her art.

 Killian nods. “I have friends who would buy prints of several of these. And I quite like this one myself.” He holds up a drawing of a woman dressed in red looking out over the railing of a pirate ship, brown hair billowing behind her in an invisible sea breeze.

“You can have it,” Milah quickly offers, still stunned that he likes her art so much. Then she blushes. “That is, if you don’t find it weird that it’s supposed to be me.”

Killian studies the drawing closer. “Ah,” he says, “I should have recognized those beautiful curls.”

Milah gasps and blushes harder. It’s not that the flirtation is unwelcome, but surely a man as attractive as Killian, who owns his own business as well, would have better prospects than her.

Killian mistakes her stunned reaction for discomfort. “I’m sorry, I must have misread.  I thought you seemed interested.”

She was interested and she had acted it, he hadn’t misread there. “No, you were right, but it’s… complicated.” She grimaces. Interested was not the same as available, though if only it were that simple.

“I see,” Killian says, trying to smile away the rejection. “And does it make it more or less complicated if I say I think I could love you?”

“Less, I think,” she says slowly, the idea giving her much to think about. But one thing she knows for certain is she needs to be honest with him. “I’m married,” she admits. “But I think, maybe, I am not loved.” Milah had thought she loved her husband because she had thought he loved her. She had thought that what they had, unfulfilling though it was, was the best that there was. But Killian had already shown her better. He’d already shown more kindness, more appreciation, more investment in getting to know her, and if that was not even love but merely the possibility of it… Well. It gave her a new perspective.

And now she suspects she’s ruined it.

But instead of anger, Killian responds to her confession with softness. “You deserve more,” he says. “You deserve love.”

--

Killian talks her into a booth at the upcoming art fair. Half a booth, really, the two of them working off the same table but keeping their own profits. No matter how anxious she might be at the idea of more of her art on display for more people who have higher tastes and back their judgments with money, an entire day of Killian’s company is too good an offer to refuse.

Killian is, in his own words, “good with colors, not details.” His paintings seem to back that up – beautiful swirls of color that, while nearly formless, perfectly encapsulate the seascapes and sunsets they’re meant to represent. It’s a lot closer to her husband’s idea of “serious art” and as they’re setting up, Milah once again worries her art is childish. Killian, once again, is nothing but encouraging.

Milah’s tense at first, uncertain, but Killian’s so easy to be around and he doesn’t criticize the way she interacts with the people who stop at their booth. Customers ooh and ahh at her paintings as much as Killian’s and soon the rhythm of the day becomes surprisingly relaxing. Killian brings her coffee when he leaves their booth for a break in the morning and lunch at noon, gently brushing off her protests of not being able to pay him back with reassurances that he doesn’t expect her to.

At one point, a customer mistakes them for a couple. Milah laughs away the misunderstanding, wishing it was true so hard it almost hurts. She’s been thinking a lot about her earlier conversation with Killian – about the love she’s always dreamed of but realized she doesn’t have, that Killian apparently thinks she deserves. She doubts Killian still wants her in that way, as it’s been long enough for him to have moved on despite their continued friendship. But the hope for a better relationship has stuck with her. She wants to leave her husband, but she hasn’t yet been able to bring herself to do it.

In the afternoon, Milah takes a break and wanders around the fair, taking in the variety of other artisans present. A woodcarver selling wine racks and his wife who brews wines and meads and ciders to fill them. A young woman knitting with clumsy stitches and promising passersby that her wares are made by her grandmother who’s “much better at the craft.” Another carver who makes the most realistic wooden toys Milah’s ever seen. A bookbinder boasting a selection of stories written by her nephew alongside leather journals and classics with painted covers. A photographer specializing in birds. A woman selling little glass dragons. And several other painters and photographers, potters and jewelers.

Her husband would have been unimpressed by the whole affair, likely would have even called some of the pieces “tacky.” Most of their home decor comes from snobbish galleries, her jewelry from major brands. Her husband always cared more about how wealthy his selections would make him appear than about things like artistic merit or fun. To Milah though, the fair seems almost magical, and she’s already planning a few market scenes to draw inspired by its atmosphere.

Milah sells four pictures in total. It’s somehow both a pathetically small number and more than she’d expected, but then self-hatred had never been the most logical of pastimes.

Killian disappears briefly as they’re packing up and returns with his hand behind his back and a cheerful, almost goofy, smile.

“I got you something,” he says.

“Oh?” she asks, heart fluttering. Killian holds out his hand, still closed, then opens it to reveal a hair clip made of glass pieces arranged in the shape of a red and orange butterfly. “It’s beautiful,” Milah breathes. She traces her finger over the clip’s smooth surface, brushing lightly against Killian’s palm as she does.

“Let me put it on for you,” Killian offers, and she obligingly turns around. His touch is gentle as he sweeps back sections of her hair and pins the butterfly in place.

He doesn’t move away when she turns to face him again. They’re close enough it might as well be an embrace, his hand lingering near her face, fingertips on her jawline. It feels like the most natural reaction in the world when she kisses him.

 The kiss is impulsive and ill-advised and wonderful. But when his soft lips begin to move against her own, she realizes what she’s done.

Reluctantly, Milah pulls away. “I shouldn’t -” she starts. Then she thinks about how earnestly Killian had said “I could love you,” about the google search for divorce lawyers still open on her phone, about how days as perfect as this could never exist in the life she’d had before she met him. And she has to know.

“Could you still love me?”

When Killian nods, she kisses him again.

--

One Year Later

Milah breezes into Killian’s store with a smile on her face and a large envelope tucked under her arm. She feels lighter since she left her ex-husband, lighter still here in this store. As the place where she met the man of her dreams and made so many happy memories with him, it feels like as much of a home as either of their apartments.

“Hello and welcome -” Killian breaks off the generic greeting when he looks up and sees that it’s her. His entire face lights up. “Milah!” Milah will never grow tired of that look, that enthusiasm, the knowledge that as happy as she is to see him, he feels the same.

They share a quick kiss across the counter before Milah circles around to join him behind it. “I brought you something,” she says, holding out the envelope. Killian opens it carefully, pulling out a drawing to match the one she’d given him so long ago. It’s a drawing of her again, in the same red outfit on the deck of a pirate ship, only this time she’s nestled into the side of a dark-haired man in a long black coat, their arms wrapping tenderly around each other.

The woman in the picture is no longer alone. Now, she has someone to love and care for her. And for once the scene of happiness for her drawn-self isn’t a bittersweet depiction of something Milah can only long for. Because now she has someone to love and care for her in real life, too.

[thejollyroger-writer]

Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home (1/1)

Just a simple little reunited childhood sweethearts one-shot that’s been on my mind for a while and begged to be let out recently. Title taken from TSwift’s “Everything Has Changed,” and the title of his book is from Sylvia Plath’s poem “The Rival”

Also on AO3

------

Emma Swan sits at the table of her favorite restaurant, eyes wide on the dessert plate sitting in front of her. It's not what she should be looking at, of course, but it's the only thing she can focus on without her mind spiraling out of control. 

Again. 

She thought they were happy. She thought they had a really great thing going, and didn't want to mess all that up. In her head, it all made sense. Just because she wasn't ready to marry him didn't mean they couldn't still be together, right? 

Apparently not. According to him, if she didn't want to marry him now, she was never going to change her mind and therefore there was no reason for them to be together anymore. 

It made no sense to her. Lots of things about him made no sense to her, but she always thought that was one of the things she liked about him — his excitement over a particular piece of furniture, his love of the opera, his desire to rinse his hair with cold water. But all of those things were… quirks. Things that made him Walsh. 

It's not like she just dropped this on him, either. They had talked before about the future, about buying a house outside the city and having a family and all of those things, and every time, Emma assured him that, though she's not ready for it now, she will be someday. 

When he decided that someday meant right now, she wasn't sure. 

So she said no. It shouldn't have been a surprise. She said, just as she had during those other conversations, that she just isn't really ready for that kind of commitment. Yes, she loves him, yes, she wants to be with him, but she just isn't ready for that. 

What was so hard for him to understand about that? 

" This doesn't have to be an ultimatum," she told him, staring only at the ring in his hand, refusing to even look in his eyes. She believed what she was saying… right? "This isn't a make-or-break for us." 

"It is for me." 

There was a coldness in his voice that she never heard before, a side of him that he had somehow managed to hide from her for the last three years. 

Why wasn't she upset?

"Really? This is — this is it for you? Either I say I want to marry you, which you already know isn't the truth, or we end everything, right now?" 

He dropped the ring on the table, folding his hands in front of him. Finally, she pulled her focus up to his face, as emotionless as she has ever seen it, his brown eyes dark with what she can only describe as rage. "Yes."  

She said nothing. There's nothing for her to say, really, staring at the words "Marry me" written so beautifully across the plate next to her slice of cheesecake. 

The silence closes around them. She should find something to say, should tell him that she wants him to stay, but her voice is gone. She doesn't even know for sure if the words would come from a place of truth, or a place of fear, simply trying to hold on to the only good thing that has happened to her recently. So much in her life had gone wrong, her parents leaving her and leaving Storybrooke and fucking Neal in the years after that. Compared to him, Walsh was a breath of fresh air, a soft summer breeze to Neal's tropical storm, and it was the warmth she clung to more than anything else. 

"Really?" he says, breaking the silence, his voice much louder than it needs to be in the quiet restaurant. Everyone has to know what's going on by now, a fact that Emma tries to ignore as best she can. 

Tries to push down, like every other emotion. 

"You're not going to say anything? Nothing at all." 

She swallows, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. 

And decides. 

"I have nothing to say," she breathes, feeling a warmth — her own fire, her own power — raging up inside of her. "If you can't respect my wishes and see this from my point of view, then no, I don't want to marry you." 

This is, apparently, all he needs to hear and, with a huff and a fist slammed on the table and a very expensive-looking ring stuffed back into the pocket of his dress coat, he leaves her there, staring down at her cheesecake and trying not to think about how many people just witnessed one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. 

It takes a bit, but the regular din of the restaurant starts to rise up around her, people turning back to their own conversations, their own lives, and leaving her behind. 

Just like everyone else has. 

With a sarcastic grin, she takes her pointer finger and runs it through the chocolate words on the plate, crossing out the words, then sticks her finger in her mouth. Another moment of contemplation, and a shrug, and she picks up her fork and begins to eat the dessert sitting in front of her. 

Walsh probably left the bill with her, too, so she might as well enjoy the dessert she will have to pay for.

So she eats his spumoni, too. 

  It's a cool spring night in Boston, and there's just enough chill in the air for her to slide her old leather jacket over her shoulders. It may not be the most appropriate with her black dress, but something about the softness of the red leather always reminded her of peace and of happiness and of home. 

The only home she ever had, really. A home she had found herself thinking about more and more recently, though she could never figure out why. 

Thinking of everything she left behind when she drove off for the last time, all those years ago. As a teenaged girl who had never known a real home before, Storybrooke was as welcoming as anywhere had ever been, and the friendships that she made there were the strongest she had ever known, even if she did only still talk to Ruby with a phone call or a text from Mary Margaret on holidays. 

Nothing in her life had been the same since she left that small town, but it was a change that she had convinced herself was a good thing. 

A change that was necessary, even if not on the best terms. 

God, she wonders if he was as embarrassed as she was tonight, the last person she said she couldn't marry. Did he feel this humiliated when she said she couldn't go to England with him? They had been so happy — possibly the happiest she had ever been, though her life was much easier at eighteen than it was now. 

She can't help herself: as her tired feet take her down the right blocks to her apartment — separate from Walsh as another way to protect herself from getting hurt — she thinks about what her life might have been like if she said yes that first time, if she had followed her heart instead of being overwhelmed by her fear. 

If she had gone to Oxford with him…  

Would they still be there? Happily roaming the streets of England, hand in hand, while she supported his dreams? What would she be doing? Certainly not living out her days as a bail bondsman, luring men into honey traps to get them to pay their debts? 

And, perhaps most importantly, would she be happy? Would she want to marry him, never having experienced the life-shattering heartbreak that came from telling him they couldn't be together? 

  Before she even realizes she has walked eight blocks, she's standing in front of the door to her apartment — but something in the shop window next to it catches her eye. 

It catches more than that, once she realizes what she is looking at, and for a moment, she can barely breathe. 

She never thought she would see him again, those bright blue eyes and charming smile. Sure, it's been ten years since she last saw him, since she said goodbye, but she would recognize him anywhere. 

She figures that would be true with any first love, but especially someone as stunning as him, and someone who left as much of an impact on her life as he did. 

For a moment, she tries to convince herself that it isn't him, that it can't be him, because that would be insane. But, more telling than his blue eyes, are the words written in block letters under his picture on the poster: "Up-and-Coming Author Killian Jones, Book Signing April 23" 

April 23. That's just a few days away. How long was this poster hanging here? Did she really pass by it all those times without noticing it? She knows that she was spending a lot of nights at Walsh's apartment, trying to appease his desire to live with her. She needed her own space, told him this all the time, but it was just another thing about her that he never tried to understand. That has to be why she is just noticing this for the first time. 

Dorothy, one of the girls that works in the bookstore, sees her staring at the poster and waves through the window, and even with all the turmoil going through Emma's mind, she can't help but smile at her braided pigtails and plaid button-down shirt tied around her waist. Dorothy always did know how to make Emma smile, always offered her a cup of coffee or a donut from the back room when Emma needed to come in to talk to August, her landlord and owner of the bookstore — or when Emma just needed a quiet place to stay for a bit, a book in her hands as she curled up on the couch in the back corner of the store, hiding from the demons in her head that came for her sometimes when she was alone. 

Emma waves back, trying her best to smile, and takes one more look at the poster on the window before climbing the steps to unlock the door. 

  His eyes greet her every time she leaves her apartment for the next few days, bright and welcoming and smiling as they have been since she was sixteen, lost and alone with nowhere to go, new to Storybrooke and small-town life. Besides Ruby, he was her first real friend (before he became something more), and she is pulled back into those memories with each glance at the bookstore window. 

On Thursday, the day before his book signing, she dares to walk into the store, deciding to gather as much intel as she can from August and Dorothy without seeming too suspicious. 

They already have books piled on the table in the back of the store and are working on lining the few folding chairs they keep in storage around the table when she comes in, exhausted from a day of chasing skips but needing to know the answers to some of the questions that have been eating away at her. 

She wanders around the shop for a bit, perusing the bookshelves and trying not to give herself away, until she finally winds up in front of the display set up next to the table. His picture on the back cover takes her breath away, even though it is the same one from the poster in the window, and she runs her thumb across his cheek before turning her attention to the summary on the back of the book: 

At just nineteen, Nathaniel Rogers has left everything he has ever known to move across the world to his dream school, only for everything he has left behind to crumble around him. Heart broken and alone, he wanders the streets of London mourning the loss of the only family he has ever known, only to be pulled back to his feet by a mysterious older man and his crew of poets. 

"It's almost based on real life, you know," Dorothy says, pulling her out of her mind before it can spiral again. "Maybe not the band of poets thing, but he's said that everything that happens to the main character in the beginning happened to him when he went to college." 

"You've read this?" 

"Yeah, and it's incredible. The way he weaves together storytelling and poetry and heartache and pain and happiness? I could read it over and over again and still love it as much as the first time." 

His writing has always been like that, she almost says, but catches herself at the last second. "Wow," she says instead. "Sounds really good. Can I buy a copy tonight and bring it back tomorrow for the signing?" 

With a smile, Dorothy obliges. 

  It's been a very long time since Emma has stayed up all night to read a book, but with Killian's book, Emma just can't help herself. The tale that he weaves, blending the present with heartbreaking flashbacks all mixed with a poetic voice so similar to what Emma remembers, is one that she gets so engulfed in that, before she even realizes it, it's 2 o'clock in the morning and she has less than 50 pages left. 

Home . That's what reading his book reminds her of, the warm feeling of life in Storybrooke, the welcoming atmosphere of Granny's diner and the comfort of walking the trail around the lake. But there's more to it, too, the obvious growth that his writing has gone through since he was a teenager, honed to an almost unfair perfection during his time as Oxford and his adulthood. 

Since she left him. 

  Showing up the next day is both the hardest and easiest decision she has made in a while. She wants to see him, she realizes, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail. She wants to see how he has grown, wants to catch up with him and learn all the things she has missed by staying behind. 

But she’s also terrified of both of those things. What if he doesn’t want to see her? 

No. That’s not what she’s afraid of. It’s stupid , really, to feel like this, to have butterflies for the first time since… 

She can’t remember the last time she had butterflies. She doesn’t think it was with Walsh, and it certainly wasn’t with Neal. It had to have been with him. Ten years since she’s felt like this, her heart pounding quickly in her chest as she grips her copy of The Great Light Borrowers against her, walking slowly down the steps from her apartment. She’s a few minutes late, just as she planned, hoping to show up after he has already started reading to avoid any chance of smalltalk. 

But seeing him there, his hair longer than it ever was when they were kids, his light blue dress shirt under a dark grey vest and unbuttoned enough to reveal a shock of dark hair on his chest, she feels something much more than nervousness. There is a tightness under the butterflies, a turning of her stomach just listening to his voice as he reads from one of the first pages of the book, and she has to lean back against one of the shelves to keep herself upright. 

“The details of that night are a haze, even now, years later,” he reads, his voice perfect and lilting and exactly as she imagined it as she read through the same narration the night before. “Certain things come back as clear as day: the sweet smell of the patisserie as I made my way down the street; the hum of the lights and the cars mixed with that patient quiet of the middle of the night, present even in the middle of the city; the feel of each rain drop as they began to fall softly from above. But I cannot recall where I was, even after all these years of searching for that patisserie. I know quite a few people made comments about my appearance as I stumbled down the sidewalk, but I cannot tell you what any of them said, what they looked like or how they looked at me. 

“But the heartbreak that I was feeling, returned back home to London for the first time since I was boy just to learn that everything I left at home was no more, is a feeling that I was unable to run or drive or swim away from, on my feet or in bottles of whatever I could get my hands on.” 

Emma doesn’t realize he has looked up from the book until she opens her own eyes, having closed them to both experience the words being told as they were meant to be, and to keep herself from running away as fast as she can. But when she opens them and finds him staring directly at her, his mouth half-agape and his bright eyes wide behind his glasses, his gaze is the only anchor that keeps her in the bookstore. 

But she knows he has to keep reading, knows that he is being paid to read for a certain amount of time, so he cannot simply choose to stop where he is and talk to her — or run from her, whichever feeling he is currently overwhelmed by. A flush rises to his cheeks, and Emma realizes he must be feeling one of them — but as quickly as it started, he clears his throat and continues to read. 

“To say I was at my lowest is an understatement of the worst kind, but in retrospect, I truly believe that I had to be drowning to that extent in order to move through the grates at the bottom of life to find the men who would pull me back to normalcy. 

“So this, dear readers, is the story of how I got there, and how I got back.” 

But this time, when he looks up, she is gone. 

  — — — 

  He’s read the words so many times, in his head and out loud, that he practically has them memorized. But, despite all his practice with public speaking, it’s something completely different when it’s his own words, words that he has stressed and worried and practically bled over, he’s learned, so he keeps his eyes down, focusing on the pages in front of him, the feel of them against his fingers and the smell of the newly-printed ink. 

“Certain things come back as clear as day: the sweet smell of the patisserie as I made my way down the street; the hum of the lights and the cars mixed with that patient quiet of the middle of the night, present even in the middle of the city; the feel of each rain drop as they began to fall softly from above. ”

His greatest struggle with this, he’s learned, is separating himself from the very personal words of his prologue. Because, while veiled in fiction, he does remember the night that started all of it, the night he learned his brother never made it home from helping him move across the ocean, and it destroyed him. There was no patisserie, there was no rain, but he was drowning in his own way, drowning in his own grief, just as Nathaniel is at the beginning of his story.

“But I cannot recall where I was, even after all these years of searching for that patisserie. I know quite a few people made comments about my appearance as I stumbled down the sidewalk, but I cannot tell you what any of them said, what they looked like or how they looked at me. 

“But the heartbreak that I was feeling, returned back home to London for the first time since I was boy just to learn that everything I left at home was no more, is a feeling that I was unable to run or drive or swim away from, on my feet or in bottles of whatever I could get my hands on.” 

As he finishes this sentence, he hears the voice of Robin, his agent, in his head: “I understand the nervousness, but you have to look at your crowd sometimes. Take a breath, look up, and continue.” 

So that’s what he does. 

Inhale. 

Look up.

Holy fuck. 

He can’t breathe. Literally, his lungs won’t move, every part of his chest is keeping him from exhaling, completely stuck. Except his already-quickened heart, working overtime through his nervousness, which takes to pounding at the sight of her. 

Emma Swan, as he lives and breathes. Almost definitely not a figment of his imagination, since his mind is already working hard enough to read in front of an audience. 

No, he takes that back. She’s definitely not a figment of his imagination, because she is somehow more beautiful than he has imagined her to be, in all the times he has imagined her in the last ten years. Her few pictures on social media do her no justice, because the angel standing in front of him, gripping a copy of his book against her chest and staring at him, takes his breath away. 

No. No, he can’t lose track of where he is supposed to be. For some reason, this small bookstore wanted to have him read while in Boston for his book tour, and wanted to offer him more money than usual — so he has to follow through with what he has promised them. 

So he clears his throat, tries to calm the pounding of his heart in his chest, and turns back to the words. 

Focusing on them is harder than it has ever been before, though, and her green eyes haunt him in a way somehow different than the way they had before, staring deeper into his soul now that he has seen her for the first time in ten years. She has always been real, has always been a ghost from the past, a mistake he constantly wished he never made. He’s dreamt about being reunited with her, probably even daydreamed about it, but he never imagined it would actually happen. For the first time in a while, he feels hopeful, a warmth in his chest that he vaguely remembers from the nights they used to fall asleep next to each other. 

But when he looks up again, the warmth is torn away, and it takes all his strength not to choke out a sob between the words. 

Because when he looks up again, she is not there. 

He goes through the rest of the reading hoping that maybe she is just out of sight, maybe she just went to the bathroom or to get a refreshment, but when he finishes the excerpt and she still has not reappeared, he realizes that his hope has, once again, dwindled away. 

Does she know how much he regrets leaving her behind? Giving in to her demand for an ultimatum and starting a new chapter of his life without her? As hard as he has tried to move on, he’s always found himself thinking about her, wondering where she is and if she is doing okay. He even went so far as to add her on social media a few years back, hoping it would offer a glimpse into her life now, but she barely posted anything — which really should not have been that much of a surprise, since she had always been so closed off. 

His few phone calls with Dave had proven just a fruitful, offering the barest trace of her, mostly through updates from Ruby. She was no longer in Storybrooke, had left around the same time he had — and, just like him, had never returned. 

But — Boston. She must be in Boston now, because he can’t imagine a scenario where she found out he was here any other way, nonetheless traveled to see him just to disappear. 

He hopes she’s happy. He has so many questions, wants to learn every little thing that has happened since he last saw her, but, more than anything else, he wants her to be happy. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have stuck around — it just makes sense. And since she hasn’t reached out at all over the last ten years, why would that change just because they’re in the same town for the first time since they broke up. 

And since she hasn’t reached out in ten years, it would just be wrong to try to find her. Right? Plus, it’s not like anyone around here even has to know her. He could ask questions to every Bostonian he sees and learn nothing. It would be wrong. It would be an invasion of privacy. It would be absolutely inappropriate. 

Yet, somehow, the question leaves his lips before he can stop it: “There was a woman here earlier, a blonde. Her name is Emma. Do you happen to have any idea where I can find her?” 

But the owner just shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” 

Killian sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding his head. It was a long shot, a totally impossible shot, and he knew that when he asked, but he still can’t help but feel — 

“Wait, you mean Emma Swan?” Killian vaguely recognizes the girl that asks the question, knows that she has been in the bookstore since he got there earlier that day — an employee, he thinks. 

“Yes!” He is maybe a bit too excited. “Why? Do you know her?” 

A beat passes, the girl on the receiving end of a glance from her boss, and Killian can’t help but notice the slump of her shoulders that follows it. 

“Uh, yeah,” she mumbles, turning her eyes to the floor. “She… comes in here a lot. I sold her your book last night.” 

His earlier thoughts rattle through his head again: an invasion of privacy. Absolutely inappropriate. Of course this girl can’t tell him where he can find Emma, there are laws against that. 

But maybe, just maybe , someone else can. 

  He waits until the next day, knowing that Dave lives a domestic life that includes things like small children and bedtimes , but hopes that the late morning is an appropriate time to call. 

Unsurprisingly, the voice on the other end of the phone is obviously shocked to hear from him. Usually they only talk on holidays, and Dave has always been the one to call, so simply seeing his name pop up on his phone must have been a bit of a shock. “Killian? Hello?” 

Only then does he realize how awkward this is. “Uh, hey, Dave.” 

“Is everything okay? You never call me.” 

“Ask him how his book tour is going!” Mary Margaret calls in the background, her voice growing ever-louder as she approaches him. 

“Yes, of course, everything is — everything is fine. The tour is going fine, thank you. I was, uh, actually hoping you could help me with something?” 

Dave, of course, agrees, so Killian gives him a small rundown of the situation. Book tour, Boston, Emma. 

“She showed up to your reading?” Mary Margaret’s voice in the background sounds just as surprised by this as he was. 

“You can imagine how surprised I was.” 

At this, Dave laughs. 

“So, how can we help you with this?” Mary Margaret asks. 

Killian clears his throat, nervous even for this. “Do you… happen to know where I can find her? She ran out before I was done, but I would really like to… to see her again.” 

“Do you think she would be okay with that?” Dave mumbles, most definitely asking his wife and not him, but he can’t help but answer. 

“She wouldn’t have shown up if she didn’t want to see me, right?” 

“Killian?” Mary Margaret yells, though absolutely unnecessary since he can hear her just fine. 

“Yes, love?” 

“I’m going to text Emma and make sure she’s okay with that, and then I’ll have Dave text you her address, okay?” 

His only option is to agree. He’s thankful even for the opportunity to talk to her again, and for the work the Nolans have to do to help him here, so of course he agrees, passes on a million thanks, and tells them he has an event to get to  — not totally a lie, but that event is only lunch with Robin, nothing too important. 

He doesn’t realize how nervous he is until he finds himself pacing across his hotel room, running his hands through his hair and fixing the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. It only takes a few minutes to hear from him, thankfully gifting him an address and a phone number, but he does not sit still for a moment between hanging up with Dave and receiving the message. 

He barely sits still through lunch with Robin, updating him with the newest part of his adventure, starting with her appearing before him last night and ending with the address from David — which he looked up on the way here, only to learn that it is the apartment above the bookstore from yesterday, most likely the reason the owner was unable to help him find her. 

“Did you text her yet? That’s why Dave sent you her number, right?” 

“And what am I supposed to say? ‘I’ve thought of you every moment since I got on the plane to England ten years ago, and seeing you last night made me realize that I’ve never stopped loving you, even if it doesn’t make sense’ ?” 

Robin barks out a loud laugh, rolling his eyes when Killian groans. "Yes," he chuckles. "Please, say exactly that." 

"Yeah, no." 

"Well, you have to send her something." 

Killian sets his phone down on the table, then runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, really,” he says, letting out a soft laugh. “I don’t. Maybe we don’t get another chance.” 

“That’s not what you want, though.” It’s not a question, not even a little bit. Robin may be his agent now, but their friendship goes back further than that, all the way back to Oxford. Killian would probably even call Robin his best friend, if anyone ever cared to ask, though they usually didn’t. Most of his communication with others anymore was through book tours and the very sparse date he accepts, though they rarely make it to a second date. He has always known why, in the back of his mind, has known that none of them are her , though he doesn’t think he’s ever gone so far as to admit it out loud. 

But if he did, it would have been to Robin. 

“No,” he breathes, tapping his phone to light up the screen. 

“Then text her.” A beat passes silently, Killian allowing his screen to go dark again. “What’s the worst that can happen, really?” 

“She can do what she did ten years ago and tell me she doesn’t want to be with me.” 

“Alright, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. What if she does do that?”

Killian’s eyes jump to his friend. “Pardon?”

“What if she says that? Then what’s going to happen?” 

“I’ll probably never set foot on this bloody continent again.” 

“Okay. We’ll go back to England. We’ll cancel the rest of your book tour so you can wallow in sadness, is that what you want?” 

Killian sighs. “No,” he mumbles. “That’s not — that’s not what I want.” 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen if she rejects you again. We don’t have to be in New York for a few days, so we’ll get terribly, raging, mad at the world drunk. Maybe we’ll go dance naked under the moon in Salem, or dive into the Boston Harbor. You will, undoubtedly, do something terribly stupid. Then the next day, we’ll nurse our headaches, eat greasy diner food, and move on , yeah?” 

“I’ve been trying to move on for ten years, Rob. You really think that’s going to happen in one night?” 

“You’ve been convincing yourself for ten years that if you come back to her, show her the person you’ve become, that she’ll take you back. Once she rejects you again, then you won’t be able to convince yourself of that anymore, and you’ll be free. Free to do whatever you want.” 

“Like dance naked with the witches.” 

“Yes.” Robin raises his cup of coffee to his lips, his eyebrows moving in sync. “Exactly like that.” 

  It takes him the rest of their lunch to decide what he was going to send her — because of course he’s going to text her. There’s a reason she showed up at his reading last night, a reason she showed up in his life again, he’s very sure of that. 

That doesn’t mean his hands aren’t shaking as he writes out his message, or that his heart isn’t pounding as his finger hovers over the send button. He reads over it again, taking yet another deep breath as he tries to slow the pounding of his heart: Hello, Emma, it’s Killian. I’m in the states for a book tour, so I reached out to David on a whim, and he told me that you were in Boston. As it turns out, I am also in Boston, though I think you may have known that. I was wondering if you would like to meet while I’m here, maybe go to dinner? 

“Really, that’s what you sent?” Robin asks, incredibly unhelpfully, but Killian’s thumb has already pressed the send button. 

Robin is still holding his phone when it goes off, and Killian convinces himself in that moment that it’s something else, it’s Facebook or email, a new Youtube video or a football update from ESPN — but watching Robin’s eyes go wide, the beginnings of a smile on his lips, ensures him otherwise, even before his phone is back in his hand. 

“Looks like you have a date, mate.”

  The next day . She asks if he wants to meet the next day . Which, yes, of course he does, but he certainly hasn’t prepared himself enough for it. He starts the day with a run, trying to work off some of his energy. 

(It doesn’t work.) 

A hot shower. A few hours of work. Lunch. He even tries to sit down and try to read, but his mind is running too hard, too fast, and he cannot focus on the words. He almost takes another shower, but convinces himself otherwise. They decided to meet at a seafood restaurant by the harbor at 5, so he doesn't let himself start to get ready until 3:30, giving himself enough time to walk the few blocks — but he still finds himself in front of the mirror twenty minutes before he wanted to leave, dressed and ready to go, but far from prepared. He's not sure his heart has slowed from it's pounding since… when did it even start? When he sent Emma the text the night before? When David sent him her number? Maybe even when he looked up from the words he wrote to ease the pain left behind by her to see her standing there, watching him. 

That can't be healthy. 

He gulps down a bottle of water, only realizing how thirsty he is when he pulls it from the fridge, runs his comb through his hair once more. Straightening the collar of his unbuttoned grey dress shirt, he takes one last look in the mirror, checks his pockets for everything he needs, and grabs his jacket before practically running out of his hotel room, not giving himself enough time to overthink the decision again and change his mind again. 

He is, of course, half an hour early to their reservation, having walked a little faster than usual, and the hostess offers him a seat at the bar while he waits for their table to be ready. A drink is the very last thing he needs right now, could possibly make him feel even more jittery, so he orders a higher-end whiskey for something to sip in place of his usual rum on the rocks, knowing he could easily down that in a single gulp. 

As he lets the soft burn of the liquid settle into his stomach, he begins to overthink everything once more, though at least now he can't run away. What if she only agreed to this to be polite? What if she just wants to catch up, or — worse, perhaps, what if she's in a relationship, happy and in love with someone who is not him? 

How is this the first time this has crossed his mind? 

Just as he's spiraling into his thoughts once more, she walks through the doorway and into the bar, a soft pink dress hugging her curves under a bright red leather jacket. Her long hair — longer than she ever kept it when she was young — is pulled into a high ponytail, falling in golden curls past her shoulders. But when she smiles at him, quickly crossing the room to join him at the bar, he forgets all of his worries, every anxiety he's felt since he saw her again melting into the comfortable heat of the restaurant. Because she's here , and she looks like that, more beautiful than any of his memories or daydreams of her have been. She's here, smiling at him, sitting beside him at the bar, and nothing else in the world matters. 

  ——— 

  Taking a deep breath, she sits down beside him at the bar. "It seems I'm not the only one who showed up early," she quips, then orders a glass of sweet red wine. 

He smiles. "I may have been a little nervous." He takes another small sip of his rum, hoping to hide the blush that rises to his cheeks. 

"You aren't the only one," she says with a chuckle of her own. 

"Oddly, that doesn't make me feel any better." 

"What do we have to be nervous about, anyway?" she asks, then takes a big gulp of her wine before smiling at him — neither of which help calm his still-pounding heart. "It's not like this is our first date." 

He leans back on the barstool, covering his face with his free hand. "Oh, god," he groans. "That was certainly terrible, wasn't it?" 

"I don't know that terrible is how I would describe it…" She pauses, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "Anymore, at least." 

"I think it's worse in hindsight for me, love." 

She didn't think she would be this affected by him. Honestly, she didn't know how she was going to feel, coming back to him after all their time apart. Nervous, she expected. Unsure of what to do. But butterflies , at twenty-one, just from being called 'love' ? That was certainly unexpected. 

( No wonder no one has measured up to him in the last ten years , she thinks to herself, trying to cover up her smile with another sip from her wine glass.) 

"I made a right fool of myself that night, and I crashed your car? I thought David was never going to speak to me again." 

She laughs. Out loud. If he couldn't still feel it pounding away in his chest, he would have sworn his heart had fallen to the floor. "Yeah, okay, Dave was beyond pissed. But not as much as when I told him I didn't have insurance for it because I stole it before I left New York City." 

"I've heard recounts of that conversation from both him and you, but I can still only imagine what he's like when he gets that angry." 

"Not to mention Ruth." 

"Oh, Ruth ," Killian breathes, falling back in his seat once more. "It's been a lifetime since I've spoken to that wonderful lady. Do you know how she's doing?" 

Emma's shoulders fall, slouching over the bar. She doesn't look up from her glass as she mumbles, "She passed. It couldn't have been more than a few months after you left for Oxford. Definitely within that first year." 

"Fuck me," he mumbles. "I'm so sorry, Emma. How did she — what did — what happened?" 

"Cancer. It was months between the diagnosis and losing her. It happened so quickly." 

"Why did no one tell me?" he asks, not even thinking about the words. 

But at this, she turns to him, full of rage. "Why did no one tell you? Really? You think any of us wanted to go through that? We had already lost Ruth, and you ran halfway around the world to get away from me." 

No!, he wants to yell, wants to remind her. I wasn't running from any of you! I asked you to come with me! 

But — thankfully — he is able to bite back the words. 

"You're right, love, I'm sorry," he says instead. "I can't imagine what you went through." 

"No," she snaps, her eyes cast down on the bar again. "No, you can't." 

He wants to correct her again. Because he does know. He knows exactly how it feels to lose the only family you have, and unlike Emma, he went through it alone, by himself in England. Does Emma even know that Liam died? Surely someone would have told David. But this isn't the place to bring it up. 

He lets the silence settle between them, taking another sip from his glass. Great job, Jones , the voice in his head scolds him — a voice that has always sounded like Liam. You've already managed to piss her off. 

Thankfully, the hostess walks over to them, a wide smile across her face. "Jones, party of 2? Your table is ready for you." 

"Thank you," Emma says softly, sliding off the barstool, her glass of wine in her hand. 

The hostess holds up a drink tray in one hand. "Please, let me take those for you." 

This time when Emma turns to him, she is obviously impressed, her eyebrows high on her forehead. "Thank you," she says again, setting her glass on the tray as Killian does the same with his. 

She leads them across the restaurant, back through the entrance and up a small set of steps before seating them at a table beside one of the large windows looking out over the harbor — a request made when Killian placed the reservation, suggested by more than a few happy internet reviewers. 

"Quite a place you picked for us here, Swan," Killian says, pulling out her chair for her to sit down. "I take it you've been here before?" 

"Yeah, Walsh brought me here once or twice, but we always just got a table on the first floor, not one with a view like this." 

He swallows, pushing his heart back down his throat as he sits across from her. "Walsh?" 

Her head snaps up, eyes meeting his and full of surprise. "Yeah, he was my…" She pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth. "We were together for a while, but we… broke up. We didn't agree on a few important things." 

"I'm sorry, Swan. When was that?" 

At this, she smiles, letting out a soft laugh as she takes a small sip of her wine. "Just a few days ago. I was on my way home from that when I saw your picture at the bookstore. Mary Margaret would have called it a sign." 

"You wouldn't?" 

“Nope. Just a mere coincidence. Why? Would you call it a sign?” 

“I would be remiss not to.” 

Emma laughs, a breathy thing that catches Killian’s breath in his throat. If he had any doubts about his feelings for her still being true after all this time apart, this moment, a soft chuckle under her breath as she smiles across the table at him, proves that he has truly never stopped loving her, not for a single moment. 

They’re both thankful for the appearance of their waitress at this moment, a redhead with a wide smile named Ariel, who stops Killian from confessing his love and keeps Emma from making a fool of herself by calling Killian dumb. She shares the specials, a pan-seared Ahi tuna and something about steak and lump crab, but though they are both looking right at her, neither of them are really listening. Emma’s been here before and knows their seafood manicotti is the best thing on the menu — the best thing she’s ever eaten, probably — and Killian could care less about specials or even the regular menu items; he’s just happy to be in the presence of Emma Swan once more. 

“Will your checks be together or separate?” she asks, looking back and forth between them. 

Emma glances at Killian, but answers the question anyway: “Separate.” 

“Together,” he says at the same time, then repeats it when he sees Emma staring at him. “It’s been ten years, Emma, the least you can do is let me pay for your dinner.” 

She rolls her eyes, but smiles as she agrees. 

They spend some time catching up, Emma recounting how she left Storybrooke not long after he did, trying her hand in a few cities, becoming a bailbonds-woman. She even includes Neal in her story, glassing over as much as she can. 

But their salads haven’t even arrived yet when she asks the question he’s been dreading the most: “How’s your brother? You haven’t mentioned him yet.” 

His groan has to be louder than he expected. Liam . How does he even tell her? 

“I, uh,” he mutters, coughing as his hand flies to scratch the spot behind his ear that has a penchant for itching when he’s nervous. “There’s no easy way to say this, love, but Liam died almost ten years ago now.” Emma’s hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “He flew to England with me, stayed for a few weeks with some people he knew, and was on a small flight to meet some of his friends in Germany that failed halfway through and crashed. He didn’t make it.” 

“Oh, Killian,” she whispers, her hand still covering her mouth, but she reaches the other one across the table and places it atop his, squeezing his fingers. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I would have throughout for sure David would have told you,” he says, refusing to meet her eyes, instead watching the slow movement of her thumb on the back of his hand. 

“I must have… I must have left by then, and I didn’t talk to anyone from home for a year or two after that, except Ruby.” 

He nods at this, unsure of how to respond, but the way she referred to Storybrooke as home made something in his blood sing. All he wanted when they were younger was to give Emma a home, somewhere she could be safe and comfortable, something she had stopped searching for before she was adopted by Ruth. ‘Just another stop ,’ she used to call it, not believing she would find anywhere to accept her for more than a few months, since that had been how the rest of her life went. He only wished he could take her back to those days, if only to tell sixteen-year-old Emma that everything was going to turn out okay. 

“So, wait,” she says, breaking the silence but also breaking their physical connection, pulling her hand back to cross her arms on the table in front of her. “How much of your book is real, then?” 

Killian can’t help but laugh. “The loss and heartbreak was real, obviously. I had just moved to England, back for the first time since I was just a boy, but in a different place as lonelier than I had ever been. I was hurt, and I was drunk, and I did meet a group of men in Oxford, wandering down a side-street not far from my flat. But that’s really the end of the fact in the fiction.”

“So they weren’t prolific poets?” she laughs. 

“Poets, sort of. They liked to write drinking songs and liked to read poems and tear them apart, but they were rather terrible at both of those things.” 

Emma laughs again, their conversation momentarily pausing as their waitress drops off their salads. 

Their conversation continues like this, pausing for refills, clearing plates, and — finally — the deliverance of the meal. Emma tries to convince herself that the conversation comes so easily because they have ten years’ of information to work with, but she knows that’s not the truth. There has always been something between them, an easiness unlike anything Emma has experienced with anyone else, and she knows that it’s simply being back with him that makes talking so easy. 

Though it lasts almost two hours, dinner feels like mere moments, and in the blink of an eye, Emma has eaten the last bite of her cheesecake, watched Killian hand his credit card to the waitress, and slid her jacket over her shoulders. A heartbeat more, and they are back in the cool Boston air, the smell of the harbor harsh in comparison to the euphoric smells in the restaurant. Emma pulls her jacket tighter around her. 

“You would think I would be used to the chill by now, especially given that it gets much colder than this,” she says, not sure in which direction to go. “It would help to buy a heavier jacket, but as soon as the snow disappears, I find myself in this one again.” 

“Well, red is certainly your color, Swan,” he says, feeling his face grow to the sameshade as her coat as he realizes this is the first compliment he’s paid her. 

“Thanks,” she laughs. “Maybe one day I’ll even learn that it gets colder once the sun sets, so I shouldn’t always walk everywhere.” 

“You walked here?” he asks, perhaps a bit more excited than necessary. “As did I. And I believe we’re heading in the same direction?” 

The night is quiet, dotted with car horns and engines and the regular hustle-and-bustle in a small city like this — and their conversation continues, Killian sharing more about Nemo and the men he met in England that helped him back on his feet, his schooling, the semester he spent studying in Madrid. Emma listens intently, quipping every few minutes but mostly silent, just as Killian remembers her to be. When asked, she shares more about her time in Boston, her best honeytraps, and she even shares a little more about Walsh when Killian asks, though she brushes any questions about Neal away faster than he can ask. 

Lost in conversation, it takes no time to walk the few blocks between the harbor and Emma’s apartment, and before either of them realize it, they are standing in front of the bookstore, looking at the same picture of Killian that started all of this. 

“Do you… want to come up? Have a cup of tea? I probably have some snacks somewhere,” she asks, the words coming out so fast she almost trips over them. 

Yes , every bone in his body sings, yet somehow, the words that escape his lips are, “I should get back to my hotel, we have to leave in the morning.” 

Her entire countenance falls, her shoulders slumping forward, eyes turning to the ground. “Oh,” she mutters, digging through her purse to find her keys. “I guess this is… goodbye, then?” 

Not this again , he thinks, desperately trying to find a way to fix the mistake he just made. “No,” he says, and her head snaps up, her eyes meeting his. “No, I’m a sodding idiot. Of course I want to come up, because I certainly don’t want this to be goodbye. Not again. I’ll even go out on a limb and bare more of my heart to you, Emma, because today has only confirmed what I’ve been trying to bury down for years. I tried to move on, tried to find a new life in England where I didn’t love you with every fiber of my being, but everything dulls in comparison to you.” 

She doesn’t care that her mouth is hanging open. She doesn’t care that her keys are still somewhere in her purse, that the April air is chilling her to the bone. All she cares about is him , saying the words she’s wanted to hear for years, the words but better , adding a poetry that so perfectly fits the new, updated version of the man she has loved since she was sixteen. 

She fills the space between them, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck while the other fists the collar of his jacket, slamming her lips into his. He is just as she remembered, warm and lovely and wonderful, the closest thing to a home that she has ever found, welcoming her back with his hand on her hip and his tongue quickly gliding along hers. 

Home . 

Her fingers in his hair, his breath on her neck, her name barely a whisper on his lips. 

Home . 

Everything she has ever wanted. Dreamed about. 

Home . 

Tagging: @shireness-says @let-it-raines @kmomof4 @pirateprincessofpizza @elizabeethan @hollyethecurious @teamhook @itsfabianadocarmo @spartanguard @ohmightydevviepuu @capswantrue @imlaxdris71 @thisonesatellite @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @scientificapricot @kday426 @snowbellewells @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @carpedzem @superchocovian

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Love, War, & Books by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Work in Progress - I’ve officially started writing the fic I was supposed to have released before Nowhere to Run, but got sidetracked. It will be a bit before I start posting, but wanted to give you a teaser. ​

Summary:

Emma Swan has put her heart and soul into Golden Swan Books, an independent children’s bookstore she inherited from her mother.  Killian Jones is the heir apparent to Jones Books, a chain of mega bookstores. When a new Jones Books moves into the neighborhood, threatening to put Emma out of business, she goes to war with Killian Jones.

Frustrated with the situation at work and unsatisfied with her own relationship, Emma, using the alias “Lonelygirl”, begins talking to a man she met online, who goes by the alias, “JR10. They agree to the simple rules of not sharing names, careers, or specifics about who they are. Until one day, they decide to meet. What happens when two worlds collide? Is all fair in love and war?

Captain Swan AU inspired by the movie You’ve Got Mail

Tagging the usual suspects: (Though my tags never work!!)

@kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda​ @teamhook​ @stahlop

Golden Swan Books:

Emma Swan

“Lonelygirl”

Owner of Golden Swan Books

Will Scarlett

Cashier at Golden Swan Books

Ruby Lucas

Cashier at Golden Swan Books

Granny Lucas

Bookkeeper at Golden Swan Books

Jones Books:

Killian Jones

“JR10”

Son of Brennan Jones the Owner of Jones Books

Belle French

Branch Manager of Jones Books

Other Characters:

August Booth

Host of Podcast show “The Underdog”

In a relationship with Emma Swan

Milah Gold

New York Times Editor

In a relationship with Killian Jones

[wistfulcynic]

A Uniquely Portable Magic

Summary: Tucked into the crossroads of the world we know and another one that we very much don’t, there lies a bookshop. Killian Jones knows the moment he enters that there is more to it than meets the eye, but he has no way of knowing just how much it holds in store for him until he meets its owner, Emma Swan. 

In which there is tea and cake and books and magic, a witch and a cat, and a lost soul finding his home. 

-

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS to the wonderful @katie-dub​, who some time ago now gave me a prompt about a magical bookstore, possibly my FAVOURITE EVER THING, and perfect for witch!Emma. There’s also a bit of inspiration from Neverwhere and of course the tea is Bird&Blend. I hope you have the most fantastic day, my dear, and that you can feel all the hugs I tried to write into this for you 😘

Thanks of course and always to @thisonesatellite​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​​ for keeping things tight. 

- 

Rating: T Words: 8.5k Tags: magic, magic AU, witch!Emma, bookstore, bookstore AU

On AO3

-

A Uniquely Portable Magic: 

He’s not sure what draws him through the door. The look of it, perhaps, the twisted grain and the knotholes, polished to a patina by centuries of wind and rain and hands upon it. Some hands much like his own and others very different. He finds comfort in that, as he places his hand on the door. His hand. 

His only hand. 

On the other side of the door is a bookshop. He knew that of course, from the sign in the window, another thing tempting him inside. It’s far too long since he read a good book, too long since he let himself get lost in stories other than his own. He’s not quite ready for what he sees. 

The shelves are made of the same wood as the door. Carved from it, it seems. Hewn might be the word. The knobbly, knothole-y wood that even his limited carpentry knowledge tells him could not form straight shelves. It doesn’t, yet they hold the books. Row upon row of them, dizzying rows. His head spins when he tries to look at them, like a kaleidoscope or a funhouse mirror, too many things, too many angles, too little space. 

He blinks, and everything is fine again. It’s just a bookstore. 

“It’s just a bookstore,” he tells the cat in the window, a huge grey tabby with long, silky fur and pale blue, unblinking eyes. 

“Of course it is,” the cat replies. “What were you expecting?” 

“I—what?” 

“Meow,” says the cat. 

“Can I help you?” asks a voice to his left and he turns, grateful for an excuse to look away from the cat. 

“Yes, I’m looking for a… book…” 

The woman gives him a faint smile. “Well, we do sell those.” 

She’s an ordinary woman, quite stunningly beautiful but dressed in a plain ivory sweater and jeans, hair pulled back in a tidy ponytail and not whipped to a frenzy by eldritch winds as she raises her arms to call down the midnight sky. Of course it isn’t. He blinks and shakes his head, and when he looks at her again her smile is still in place. 

“Any particular book you’re looking for?” she asks. 

“Erm, no,” he replies. “Something meaty. Complex. But no politics or business or murder. Something… something that feeds the soul.” He has no idea why he says that, but the woman’s smile softens. 

“That’s a tall order,” she says. “But I think I can fill it. Come with me.” 

She leads him through the maze of shelves, muttering under her breath and pulling books from them seemingly at random. He tries to look at the books for himself but she moves so quickly he gets little more than a glimpse of their titles as he takes long strides to keep up. He recognises none of them. 

They emerge into the back of the shop where a small cafe nestles into the wall. Its counter is made of the same knotted wood, its display case filled with cakes and pastries laid out beneath a curving pane of glass he’s somehow certain was hand-blown. It’s softly rippled with a pearlescent sheen and inside it the baked goods glow. 

He blinks again and they are simple cakes. 

Small tables and chairs are scattered throughout, wrought-iron painted eau-de-nil, and onto one of these the woman drops her armload of books. “Have a look through these and see if any of them appeal,” she says. “Take your time. I’ll have Ruby make you a coffee.” 

“I—” 

“Don’t be silly, Emma,” says another voice, that of a tall and sleek red-streaked brunette who saunters up from behind the counter. “He’d clearly prefer tea.” 

“I—” he doesn’t really want either, but then it’s been so long since he’s had a book and a nice cup of tea, and so “I would,” he replies. 

“And cake.” Ruby grins, wide and only a bit predatory. “Tea and cake.” 

He doesn’t dare argue. “Thank you.” 

“Coming right up.” 

He sits at the table and opens the book at the top of the pile, glances into it, and is absorbed. It’s the tale of a lonely man, a wanderer without a home who finds his place in the hearts of those he meets along his travels. It grips him so entirely that he fails to notice Ruby as she sets a pot of tea before him, with a mismatched cup and saucer and a plate bearing a thick slice of cake, fragrant with lemon and dotted with plump blueberries. Absently he prepares his tea—a splash of milk, no sugar—and sips it as he reads. It has a bright, floral aroma but a rich flavour that reminds him of the Earl Grey his brother favoured, and he has to pause for a moment to allow the ache to pass. It does, faster than it once did, and so he risks another sip and sighs this time in pleasure. It’s delicious. He settles deeper into the chair and the book, sips the tea and nibbles the cake and doesn’t notice either one disappearing or the afternoon sunshine fading into twilight beyond the windows until Ruby comes to clear the table with a clatter of silver on porcelain. 

He startles at the sound and looks up, frowning. 

“Sorry to interrupt you,” says Ruby. She sounds the opposite of sorry. “But we’re closing soon. Can I get you anything else?” 

“Oh. Sorry. No, I’ll just take this book. And… do you think I could get a list of these others? For reference?” 

Ruby grins, and there’s something triumphant in it. “I’m sure Emma would write them down for you,” she says. “She’s at the register.”

“Thanks.” 

She nods. “Come back soon.” 

~

The woman—Emma—is waiting at the register, a large apothecary-style chest equipped with all the cash-and-card accoutrements necessary to a modern retail establishment. He wonders why this surprises him.  

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, with a professional smile and an undercurrent of something in her voice that he can’t quite put his finger on, a depth to the question that makes him hesitate before he answers. 

“Aye,” he says after a moment’s pause, endeavouring a lightness he doesn’t feel. “This one sucked me in and I don’t think I can rest until I finish it. I’ll take it now, and, er, Ruby said you would also make a list of the others for me, so I can find them again?” 

“I’ll do you one better,” she says. “I’ll leave them here at the register, and you can choose another when you come back.” 

There seems to be no question in her mind that he will come back. He’s not certain he cares for the presumption, but he agrees with a smile. “That would be lovely, if you don’t mind keeping them from your other customers.” 

She gives him an odd, sharp look. “It won’t be a problem.” She tears a sheet of paper from a pad next to the register and continues “If I could just get your name?” 

Once again he hears a weight in her words that doesn’t seem to belong to them. It’s a simple enough question and the answer hardly a secret, and there is surely no reason at all to feel as though he’s giving anything away by replying. 

“Killian Jones,” he says. 

“Killian. Is that with a C or a K?” 

“K.” He keeps the smile on his face as she writes his name on the paper and places it atop his stack of books, then tells him the price of the one he’s buying. As he reaches into his pocket for his wallet she flicks her fingers at his sleeve, the tiniest twitch of motion, barely noticeable even if he were watching her do it. 

He doesn’t notice. 

He pays for his book and gives her another smile, one that she returns warmly. He notices again how beautiful she is, how her green eyes sparkle, and feels foolish that he ever imagined that there may be something sinister in the way she spoke to him. She’s just a lovely woman who runs a lovely bookstore, and of course he’ll be coming back again why wouldn’t he? 

He turns to go and finds the door is easily visible from where he’s standing. Of course it is, he thinks, why wouldn’t it be? He shakes off the feeling that his way to the back of the store was far more convoluted than his way from it, and takes his leave, ignoring the unblinking gaze and swishing tail of the cat in the window. 

Emma watches him go, and once the door clicks shut behind him she takes the hair she plucked from the sleeve of his sweater and places it carefully on the sheet of paper that bears his name. She folds the paper several times upon itself until the hair is safely enclosed within it and puts it in her pocket. 

~

The moon is high in the sky, round and luminous, when Emma lights the fire beneath her cauldron with a flick of her wrist. She tosses in a bit of this and a pinch of that, gives it a stir and lets it simmer as she consults a crumbling, leather-bound book. 

The grey cat leaps onto her table, delicately avoiding the bottles of potions and powders that litter it. He sits on the edge and curls his tail around his paws, regarding her with his cool blue eyes.

“He saw you,” the cat says. 

“I know.” 

The cat flicks the tip of his tail. “He heard me.” 

“I know, David!” Emma huffs in annoyance as she stirs the contents of the cauldron. 

“Who is he?”

“That I don’t know.” 

She tips a handful of bright blue powder from a glass bottle and into her palm, then tosses it into the cauldron. The contents bubble up with a hiss then settle into a smooth, flat surface. Onto which, when she drops the single dark hair upon it, resolves the image of Killian Jones. 

“But I intend to find out.” 

~

He’s back again three days later, having finished his book and found himself unable to stop wondering what other gems may be among the pile that Emma has tucked away for him. The one he bought was more satisfying than anything he can recall reading since his youth, when tales of adventure kept him awake late into the night, reading beneath the covers with a flickering torch so Liam wouldn’t see. 

Killian knows now that Liam did see, but kept it to himself. 

He feels so little these days other than tired, worn threadbare by stress and sadness, and a book that not only holds his interest but actively engages it is an inestimable treasure. These past few nights have seen him sleeping soundly through them, his mind too exhausted—in the good way this time—to keep him awake with remembering. And all because of a beautiful woman who found him a book. 

This Emma has a gift, he thinks, and with it she’s given him one. He’s deeply grateful but he wants more. Needs more. Needs to know more about her. 

The cat is not in the window when he arrives this time, nor is Emma anywhere to be seen. The shop itself is perfectly normal—he’s not sure why he thought it might be otherwise—with its crooked shelves standing straight…well, not straight precisely but lined up, er, in a line… He sighs. It makes sense in his head. 

He heads back towards the cafe, which is empty save for the cat and a young woman with short, dark hair upon whose lap he’s sprawled, his pose relaxed but his gaze sharply observant. The woman is petite and very pretty, reclining in her chair at an odd angle to accommodate the cat’s generous size, holding her book carefully in one hand and stroking his head with the other while a cup of coffee steams invitingly on the table beside her. She casts the cup a longing look from time to time, but it’s too far away for her to reach without disturbing the cat and so she leaves it be. 

Killian isn’t sure the cat would move even if she did disturb him. His purr is audible from across the cafe and his expression one of perfect, smug contentment. He regards Killian coolly, fluffy tail flicking, daring him to make something of it. 

Killian raises an eyebrow and strides purposefully across the cafe, keeping his eye on the cat as he slides the woman’s coffee cup across her table. She casts him a grateful glance and he nods, smirks at the cat, and when he looks up again Ruby is there behind the counter grinning her wide grin. 

“Hey, Killian,” she says. “It is Killian, right?” 

“Er—yes.” 

“Yeah. Emma said.” 

“Oh.” He feels an odd thrill at the thought of Emma mentioning him. Thinking about him after he had gone. “Er, yes. Is she here?” 

“She’s in the back. Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Um.” He shoots a glance at the woman. Her attention seems wholly on her book, and though the cat continues to stare, Killian figures there’s nothing he can do about that. “Perhaps you can,” he replies. “I left some books here on my last visit, and Emma said she would hold them for me. I’d like to look at them, if I could, and choose another.” 

“Killian Jones.” It’s Emma’s voice that speaks, from behind him and just to his left. The sound of it shivers across his skin in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes. 

He definitely doesn’t not like it, though. 

He turns to see her smiling at him. Her hair is loose today, curling over her shoulders in soft waves, bright against the blue of her blouse. She’s wearing jeans and sandals that reveal red-painted toenails and she looks completely unthreatening. 

Of course she does. He gives his head a little shake to clear it.

“Have you come for your books?” she asks him. 

“Yes. If that’s all right.” 

“Of course it is. Let’s go have a look. Ruby, would you make him some tea?” 

Killian doesn’t bother to protest. He accepts that the tea is inevitable, and actually he’s quite looking forward to it. 

He follows Emma to the register where she retrieves the stack of books and watches intently while he looks through them and makes his selection. He watches her watching him, noting the subtle changes in her expression and body language each time he picks up a book to read the blurb on its cover. He lets her reactions guide him, and when he holds up his final selection her approving smile lights up the room. 

He blinks and the light is as it was before. 

Killian holds the book carefully in his prosthetic hand and scratches his ear with the other. 

“Lass,” he says. “I hate to ask, but—” 

“Can I hold the rest of these here until the next time you come?” she says, deadpan but with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.” 

“Are you this kind to all your customers?” he asks with a grin. 

Her lips curve in response, into the most peculiar smile he’s ever beheld. “No,” she says. “I’m not.”  

His heart thumps and for a moment he feels his old self again. “So I’m just lucky then,” he says. 

“That remains to be seen.” 

She holds his gaze a beat too long for comfort then turns away. 

He takes his book back to the cafe where Ruby has tea waiting and a slice of cake. At first he’s disappointed to note that it’s a different cake than he had the last time and a different aroma emanating from the teapot but once he’s had a sip and a bite that disappointment turns to delight. The cake is soft and mildly tangy with a crunchy pecan topping and the tea is rich and malty and perfect with a splash of milk. 

Killian sinks into it, into all of it—the cosiness of the room and the tea and the cake and the book, and the sunshine through the windows and the purr of the cat. He melts into the story as he reads, lets the pages enfold him and wrap him up in their embrace, and when the dark-haired woman eases the cat from her lap with soothing words and a kiss on the top of his head, he doesn’t notice. Nor does he hear the chat she has with Ruby or the petulant mewl of the cat, or sense her walking past him when she leaves. 

Other customers come and go as well. There’s a slight man in round spectacles accompanied by a Dalmatian whom the cat, much to what would have been Killian’s astonishment had he been watching, seems to adore; they curl up together beneath the corner table as the man enjoys a cup of coffee and a slice of buttered raisin bread. There’s a haughty woman, sharply dressed, who sweeps in and holds a hissed conversation with Emma at the back of the shop then leaves with the same sweep and several parcels wrapped in brown paper beneath her arm. There’s a man in a tattered velvet jacket and a few too many scarves; Emma’s smile strains at the edges as she helps him and the flash in her eye has a dangerous edge. There’s a man who takes his coffee black like the typewriter he pecks at in an armchair beneath the window as Ruby rolls her eyes, and there’s a little boy with a bright, eager face and incessant chatter who drinks hot chocolate dusted with cinnamon and makes her laugh. 

Throughout all the intermittent bustle and quiet of the day Emma watches Killian read. She watches as the tension drains from his shoulders and the frown fades from between his eyes, and as he gets lost in the story his expressive face reveals the sharp intelligence and wry humour that struggle valiantly beneath the weight of his burdens. Killian doesn’t notice her gaze but he feels it all the same and all the same it warms him, soothes him even when he sighs and leans back in his chair to roll his shoulders and rub his neck and it sharpens, just briefly, with something darker. 

All too soon the day begins to fade behind the windows and when Ruby comes to clear his table he looks up at her with a smile. 

“Closing time already?” 

“It sneaks up on you sometimes, doesn’t it?” she replies. 

“Aye.” 

He stands and stretches, glances over to see that Emma is on duty at the register. As he approaches her expression softens in a way that makes his heart do a little skip in his chest. 

“How was it?” she asks.

“Brilliant. I’ll take it.” 

She beams. “I’m so glad. Ah, that you liked it, I mean, not that—” 

“Aye. I know.” 

She rings up his sale with a flush on the tops of her cheeks that captivates him, and when she hands him the bag her fingers brush against his. Killian gasps as the world explodes with colour and sound and light, but when he blinks it’s gone and Emma is smiling at him, the same as before. 

He thanks her and starts to go, still all of a whirl, but something stops him. He turns back. 

“May I ask you a question, love?” 

“Sure.” 

“How did you know? What books to choose for me, I mean? These two have been—well, exactly what I didn’t realise I was looking for. I’d never have found them for myself. How did you know?” 

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret.” She grins and taps the side of her nose. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.” 

He clears his throat. “And what do you read in me?” he asks. 

Her tone is light, draped over something deeper. “Would you really like to know?” 

“Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think perhaps I would.” 

She places her hand on his arm and this time the light is gentle, the sound is soothing harmonies and the colours soft as a rain-washed meadow. 

“Another time,” she says. 

~

It’s not long before the bookshop becomes a part of his routine, such as it is. Routine is important in recovery, so he’s told, and he does his best to set and stick to one. He gets up at the same time every day—early, as always, the habits of a lifetime are hard to break—he cooks and eats and exercises, and attends his meetings. And two or three times a week he stops by the bookshop for tea and cake and a new addition to his rapidly growing personal library. He makes a mild joke to Emma about affording all this luxury and she replies with a careful smile. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

And it is. His navy pension barely covers his expenses but although he buys a book each time he finds he’s never short on funds; rather he always seems to be discovering twenty dollar bills in trouser pockets and handfuls of change from things he can’t remember buying. 

He adores the books, of course. They fill his lonely nights and give his mind the respite it craves, an alternative to painful memories or sluggish retreat. But they are not what draws him back to the shop, again and again. It’s also not the cake. 

It’s the way that Emma smiles at him, the warmth that radiates from her and into him, that seals the fissures in his soul. The conversations he so treasures that begin with books and end in a pause, a we’ll talk more next time, but they never do. There’s always something new to discuss, next time. 

He thinks about her often as he goes about his day, when he finds something he thinks she’d enjoy or sees sunlight dappled through the trees the way it is through her hair. He looks forward to the glint in her eye and the twist in her smile when she tells him she’s added a new book to his pile; he forces himself not to rush as he reads. The books will still be there tomorrow, he reminds himself, and the next day and the next, and he is determined to savour them. 

Determined, though he knows all too well the fragile nature of this kind of happiness. 

~

The greenhouse is lit by moonlight alone, the only light that doesn’t kill the Nocturnam dentifolia with its glow. Emma wakens the plant with a gentle stroke of her finger down its curled-up frond, and smiles as the frond unfurls and wraps itself around her palm in greeting. She begins harvesting tiny beads of venom from the plant’s sharp teeth, ignoring David when he leaps onto the table and sniffs the dentifolia in feline disapproval. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says. 

“I’ve been harvesting dentifolia venom since I was ten years old—” 

“You know that’s not what I mean. I hope you know what you’re doing with him.” 

Emma considers dissembling but decides it’s not worth the effort. “I do,” she replies. 

“Do you, though?” 

“He’s lonely, David. And sad. He needs me.” 

“And what about what you need?” 

She shakes her head, willing away the thoughts of Killian and his crinkly smile and the pain behind his eyes and the way those eyes light up when they see her. 

“I have everything I need.” 

“Yeah? Then what about what you want?”

Emma focuses her attention on catching the venom in her vial, made of a hardened smoky quartz that won’t dissolve on contact with it. It’s delicate work, and requires concentration. 

David hisses and the tip of his tail flicks. “You take too much on yourself, Emma.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“I know you can. But you don’t have to do it alone.” 

Emma sets the venom down on the table with a sharp thunk. “So what do you think I should do, David? Force him to give up everything he knows—” 

“I doubt much force would be required.” 

“—drag him into an entirely new world—” 

“Not entirely new.” 

“—when he’s known more than enough suffering already in his own?” 

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” David repeats. “Let him help you.” 

“He’s the one who needs help.” 

“You’re so damned stubborn, Emma. Don’t forget that I saw the same things you did in that cauldron—” 

“Pah.” 

“—I saw who he is, and who he could be. To you. All you have to do is let him in.”

“I’m fine as I am.” 

David’s tail swishes as it whips across the table and his ears turn back against his head. He catches her gaze and holds it as he reaches out with his paw, a single claw extended, and with slow deliberation tips over the vial. They both watch as venom oozes out of it and through the cracks in the table, dripping down to burn a sizzling hole in the concrete floor. 

“I’m going to spend the night at Mary Margaret’s,” he says.  

~

As the days become weeks and then ease into months, Killian begins to notice certain things about the shop. They enter his consciousness in a slow drip, never too many at once, never more than he can handle. The shelf by the register lined with candles and powders and tinctures in crystal vials. The arcane symbols carved along the edges of the bookshelves and the ones formed of silver and set with cut glass that dangle in the windows and twist the sunlight into rainbow hues. The odd way that the time stretches, the depth and stillness of the shadows, how the tea is always hot. The glimpses from the corner of his eye, gone the moment he blinks, of Ruby’s smile baring dripping fangs and David’s crystalline eyes in a human face. 

Killian is a practical man, well-educated and vastly travelled, and he accepts the existence of things in this world that lie beyond his ken. He’s seen hints of them all his life, faintly on the misty edges of Cornish cliffs in his childhood and more clearly during his years in the navy, around corners he turned down on a whim and on the faces of those people whom most folk barely notice. The bookshop and its patrons are the clearest yet, unlike anything he has encountered before. This doesn’t trouble him in the least though it thoroughly intrigues him, just as everything connected with Emma intrigues him. 

The last traces of spring have faded and the air is warm and fragrant, with the gentle weight and drawn-out softness of an early-summer twilight, on the day Killian leaves the bookshop and turns, quite without any intent to do so, around a corner that he’s never noticed before. He finds himself in a narrow alleyway far darker than the street, still and close and vaguely menacing, though he feels certain that it means him no harm whatever it may hold in store for other travellers. He follows it to where it ends in a stone archway and a rusty iron gate which swings open before he can reach out his hand to push it, beckoning him into the hazy gloom beyond. 

This is how mortals end up kidnapped, Killian thinks, and yet he barely hesitates before stepping through the arch and through the gloom and into a garden bright with golden sunlight and riotous with colour. Woody vines and trunks of trees twist together to form a wall that marks its boundaries on three sides; those he recognises are apple and hawthorn and cherry and yew. Two greenhouses make up the fourth side, one a fairly typical model in his estimation and the other much the same, except its windows are all stained a smoky black. Together they frame a wild carpet of blooms in hues that range from bright white to deepest indigo, nodding atop stems and stalks in every shade of green. 

It appears random, Killian thinks, but there is method in it, a species of order underlying chaos that is so familiar he feels no surprise at all when the greenhouse door opens and Emma emerges. 

“Oh!” she cries and stops abruptly, staring at him. “Killian! What—how did you get here?” 

“I... don’t know exactly,” he replies. “I’ve never turned down this path before.” 

“No,” says Emma, “I don’t suppose you have.” 

She’s annoyed, he thinks, though not with him. “Is all this yours?” he asks, indicating the garden with an expansive gesture of his arms. “It’s extraordinary.” 

“Yes, it’s mine. It’s where I grow the ingredients for my—” She snaps her mouth shut and looks at him warily.

“For the things you sell in the shop,” he supplies, with an encouraging smile. “The candles and balms and… the like.” 

“Er—yes.” 

“You make them all yourself, then.” It’s less a question than a gentle acknowledgement, to let her know that he knows too. 

She softens. “Yeah. It’s, um, kind of a family tradition.” 

“And a lovely one. May I see it?” 

She hesitates. “Do you really want to?” 

“Aye, of course I do. I’d love to know more of your heritage.” 

The look she gives him is both sweet and sharp, tenderness with an edge that makes his gut clench. She nods. 

“Follow me.” 

~

It’s those damned eyes, Emma thinks, as she leads him on a tour around the garden, stopping to introduce each plant and explain its properties and uses. They’re so interested, so intent on her and on everything she says, and the sadness ever lurking in their depths breaks her heart. 

They’re shining now, though, as he looks around her garden, and when he looks at her she feels lit up from within, warm and glowing in a way she never imagined she could feel without using magic. 

This is magic. 

Emma ignores the whisper in her ear just as she’s been doing now for months. No cauldron is going to tell her what to do, she thinks obstinately. She’s perfectly capable of managing her own fate. And anyway, cauldrons are designed to observe, not predict. If she wanted to mess around with the Foretelling she’d get herself a damned crystal ball. 

“And what’s in the greenhouses?” Killian’s voice snaps her back to herself, and she realises that they’ve made a full circle of the garden. 

“Oh. Um. Just more things I use. For, uh, more specific needs.” 

“For personalised spells.” 

“Well, yes. Things that people request that need to be tailored to them and—wait, what?” 

He turns to her with that dimpled smile and so much warmth in his eyes. “Emma,” he says gently. “I’ve been around the world ten times over and seen many things on the way. I know a witch when I meet one.”

“Oh.” She stares at him as he continues to smile. “And that doesn’t, um. Freak you out at all?” 

“Of course not.” 

He’s so close she can feel the heat of his body and she shivers despite it, and despite the warmth of the evening. He sees of course, just as he sees everything in her, and she hears the catch in his breath, feels the tension straining in his every sinew as he steps closer still. His fingers brush across her cheek and trace the edge of her jaw and she gasps at the sensation, grips tightly to his shirt to keep from falling as he whispers her name across her lips and she rises on her toes to meet his kiss. 

~

Killian feels suffused in light, bursts of it behind his eyes and sparks that dance along his skin. He thinks at first that it must come from Emma but no, he realises, it’s within him, pouring out from him and into her. 

He catches her startled gasp with his lips and takes the kiss deep, slowly savouring the taste of honey cake and of mint tea—a sweetness and a burn that’s so very her—until the noise she makes at the back of her throat nearly ends him. With a growl he pulls her closer and just for a moment she goes, melting into him and firing his blood, but then she shoves hard against his chest and breaks the kiss and the light is gone. 

She stumbles backwards, staring at him with a tangle of emotions in her eyes, apprehension and longing and the heat of both passion and pique. “I felt—” she whispers, raising a trembling hand to touch her lips. “I thought—but you can’t—I—I—” 

“Emma,” he says softly, taking a hesitant step towards her, but she holds up her hands and backs away. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s too much. You can’t—we can’t do this. I’m sorry.” 

“Emma!” he calls after her as she turns and flees across the garden, heedless of her precious plants, but the name returns to his ears in a hollow echo when she slips through the solid wall of trees and then is gone. 

~

He gives her space, and time. She needs both, he knows, and plenty of them. Emma is not a woman who accepts lightly, or deals easily with things outside her control. When the time is right to return to her he’ll feel the pull. 

It doesn’t come for nearly a month and when it does he goes without hesitation. His arrival finds the shop empty of customers and eerily silent, a still, expectant silence so deep that the swish of David’s tail along the knotted wood of the windowsill is deafening. 

Emma is standing where she was when he first beheld her, beneath a tall window and swathed in moonlight, though the sun is high in the sky. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders and she wears a flowing crimson gown. The same gown he saw her in, that first time. The same gown and the same moonlight.  

“You see me,” she says. 

“Aye. Of course I do.” 

“No, but—” she breaks off as her eyes turn to David, now standing in front of the window in soft leathers and silk, very stern and very human. “You see me, I mean.” 

Killian nods. “I see you both.” 

Emma sighs and the scene around them melts away, gently as chalk in the rain, and the bookstore is as normal. The swish of David’s tail is drowned out by the bustle and hum of customers, and Emma is dressed in jeans and a sage green sweater that brings out her eyes. 

“Emma,” he says, stepping closer and taking her hands, the bright magic that flares up at their touch familiar now. “What does this mean?” 

“I don’t entirely know,” she admits. “Magic doesn’t always have an explanation. Sometimes it just is.” 

“And what magic is this?” 

“True love magic,” says David, and Emma flushes. 

“True love?” Killian repeats as he twines his fingers in hers. He imagines this should feel like a revelation, but it does not. 

“Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. “I mean, it’s possible, or maybe more like potential.” 

“Potential true love?” 

She nods. “The seeds are there,” she whispers. “We only have to let them grow.” 

“Growing seeds is something you do remarkably well, love,” he says with a soft smile. “What will we need to nurture these ones into full flower?” 

She huffs a little breath through her own, reluctant smile. “Don’t torture the metaphor,” she retorts, and then her face grows solemn. “It’s not as simple or straightforward as nurturing something until it grows,” she says. “Magic isn’t for everyone. There are dangers—” 

“I’ll face them,” he assures her, tightening his hold on her hands. “Whatever may come, I’ll face it with you.” 

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Killian.” 

“Then explain it to me.” 

Emma pulls her hands from his and twists them together anxiously as she speaks. “We can’t talk about this here,” she says. “Come with me.” 

She leads him back to the corner of the shop where the register sits beneath a tall window and opposite an archway of precisely the same material and shape as the one that brought him to her garden, though this one is fitted with a sturdy wooden door. He’s seen her pass through this door a hundred times, into ‘the back,’ as it is known, with no other name nor explanation ever given. The door swings open as Emma approaches and he follows her through it, David at his heels, and if anyone finds it odd that he’s gone with Emma into a place where no customer before has ever been, they do not show it. 

“Ruby,” Emma calls. “Bring tea.” 

The room they enter is long and narrow, with the same tall windows that grace the bookshop on either side. Along one windowless wall is a cluttered wooden workbench and the other is lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with supplies. There are ceramic bowls of all different sizes, glass vials and stone ones, herb bundles and crystals and lumpy leather bags, and, Killian notes to his amusement, no fewer than three cauldrons, one copper and one iron and one that appears to his untrained eye to be carved from moonstone. 

Beneath the nearest window two armchairs sit, deep and inviting ones made of worn brocade. A table like the ones in the cafe nestles between them, and onto this Ruby, appearing quite suddenly through a smaller doorway that opens up from between the shelves, places a teapot and three cups. 

She flashes her feral grin at Killian and saunters away. Emma gestures for him to take one of the chairs and he does, watching wordlessly as she settles herself into the other and pours the tea. David leaps onto the arm of her chair and sits like a sentry at her elbow, accepting the cup she balances in front of him with regal grace. 

She hands Killian the second cup and takes the third for herself, and the three of them sip in silence for a moment. A dozen questions clamour on the tip of Killian’s tongue, but he holds them in. He waits. 

“Magic,” Emma says finally, “is a capricious, tricksy thing. It doesn’t sit comfortably in the world you know.” She sets her cup down on the table and folds her hands together in her lap. “It can exist only at the edges of it, deep within crannies and around corners and on certain people, a part of those things but also outside them.” 

“Beyond them,” says David. 

“Yes. It extends beyond what most can perceive and into a place that’s much wilder and less ordered. One that’s run on arcane powers and ruled by the people who wield them, and wielding them sometimes requires a darkness and a sacrifice that changes those people, makes them less than human. Dangerous.” 

Killian nods. “But such people exist in my world too,” he points out. “The ones who sacrifice their humanity for power. The difference, it seems to me, is only in the nature of the power.” 

Emma frowns as she considers this. “I see what you mean,” she says. “But. I’d guess that the people who wield power in your world don’t take any particular interest in you?” 

“Decidedly not.” He can’t hold back a bitter laugh. “I’m quite insignificant, really.” 

“In your world.”

Killian looks at her sharply. “But not in yours?” 

“No.” 

“But—how can that be?” He scowls. “How can I be of importance in a place I’ve never been?”

 Emma picks up her tea again, and her fingers tremble as she wraps them around the cup. “Killian, why did you come into the shop, the first time?” she asks. 

“I wanted a book.” 

“Was that all?” 

“Aye… although perhaps not.” He frowns, trying to remember. “The shop just—appealed to me, in an odd sort of way.” 

“Odd how?” 

“Like it was beckoning to me, almost. I’d been down this street dozens of times before, hundreds even, and never noticed it. Then one day I did.” 

Her expression doesn’t change, and he realises she was expecting this very answer. “And why did you keep coming back?” 

His mouth quirks. “To see you.” 

She huffs a short sigh, though her cheeks flush faintly. “And?” she presses.

“And, well, I suppose it kept beckoning.” 

“Did you never think to wonder how?” David interjects. “Or why?” 

“David!” snaps Emma, but Killian replies calmly. 

“No, mate, I confess I didn’t. I’ve learnt not to question any good fortune that happens to come my way. I prefer to simply enjoy it”—he pauses as he thinks of Liam—“for as long as it may last.” 

“Are you happy now?” hisses Emma, glaring at David. “Do you have anything more you’d like to contribute?” 

David looks away from them and begins to wash his face. 

“It’s a reasonable thing to ask, though, love,” says Killian. “Why didn’t I question it? Should I have?” 

Emma gives him a searching look, as a sunbeam from the window falls across her face. “Would you have stopped coming here if you had?” 

He wishes he could say no, but “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “Perhaps.” 

She nods. “That’s why you didn’t question it.” 

“But I still don’t understand,” he says, setting down his empty cup. Emma refills it without asking, and without thinking he takes it up again and sips some more. “Why did the shop call to me? Why me?”

“True Love magic is extremely rare,” David says, ignoring the scowl Emma turns on him. “And powerful. It behaves as it must to draw together the people capable of sharing it.” 

Something in his voice, a bleak sort of yearning, catches Killian’s attention. “You, and the brunette,” he says. “Mary Margaret, is it?” 

David’s tail swishes, and though he doesn’t clench his jaw he gives the impression of it. “Yes,” he replies. “And we have suffered for it. Magic that powerful can do incredible things, so you can imagine there are many people who seek to harness it for themselves.” The light bends and he shifts, from cat to man and back again. “By whatever means necessary.” 

“That’s the danger you spoke of,” Killian says, looking at Emma. “You’re worried something similar might befall me.” 

She nods. “Or worse.” 

“But not necessarily,” says David. “You have to tell him everything, Emma.”

The anxiety is back on Emma’s face, evident in the wrinkling of her brow and the way she bites her lip. She replaces her teacup in its saucer with a clatter and clasps her hands again, digging the nails of one into the flesh of the other.

“Killian,” she says, “I'm so sorry to unearth the painful past with this, but—what do you remember about your mother?” 

He blinks in surprise. “Er—not much. She died when I was very young. I remember that she was beautiful. Blue eyes like mine but red hair, a dark auburn red. Her name was Alice. Alice Pendyr, as she was born.” 

“Pendyr,” Emma repeats, her expression sharp and sorrowful. “Cornish?” 

“Aye. Meaning end of the—” 

“—land,” Emma finishes. “Alice of the land’s end.” 

“Aye.” 

She pauses and the silence builds, settling like snow upon their shoulders. “But,” she says softly, “of what land?” 

 Killian starts, and stares at her. She meets his eyes calmly, though her hands remain tense and twisted in her lap. He makes a fist of his own.

“How can you know to ask that,” he whispers. “No one outside my family ever learned of it.”

“What land, Killian?” Emma presses, gentle and implacable.

 He forces his body to relax, unclenches his fist and lays his hand flat against the arm of his chair. “Nobody knows,” he replies. “She was found in a basket on the edge of a cliff, wrapped in a blanket of a weave and fibre none had seen before, less than one day old. The couple who found her raised her as their child but with her own name, a name for her origins, they said. They were called Chenoweth. I—” he frowns. “I don’t know why no one ever questioned that. The difference in names, I mean, when they always called her their daughter.”

“How did she die?” 

“I—” He shakes his head. “I’m not certain. As I said I was very young. One day she was fine and the next—we went for a walk.” He blinks again as the memory, so long forgotten, returns in vivid force and he is there again—there on the wind-whipped precipice, clinging to his mother’s leg as clouds swirled above them and rocks churned the sea into a lather far below their feet. “We walked right to the edge of the cliff and she told me the tale of how my grandparents found her there, on that very spot where we stood. Then she… she stared out at the sea for the longest time, and when she looked at me again her eyes were so sad. She said it was time to go home. I held her hand the whole way back because I didn’t want her to be sad, and she laughed and hugged me, as she always did. But then… the next day she was gone. My father told me she had taken ill in the night and died before sunrise.”

There are tears in Emma’s eyes, and she clears her throat before she asks “Was there a funeral?” 

Killian’s frown deepens, and he rubs his temple. “I—I don’t—I don’t remember one.” 

Emma smiles, a small smile full of heartrending empathy. “I see.” 

“What—what are you saying?” Killian demands. “That my mother didn’t die?” 

“She did not,” says Emma gently. “She went home.” 

“Home. You think she was from this magical world.” 

“Yes I do, and I don’t think that it truly surprises you to hear it,” Emma replies, and he swears the earth tilts as she speaks, telescopes around her until she is all that he can see, her voice the only sound in his ears. “It explains a lot that’s never quite made sense to you, I’d bet, like why you’ve always felt slightly out of place wherever you are and why you spent so long wandering. Why you are able to see more than you should.” Her gaze is intent now, her face and form aglow with the moonlight that empowers her. “Because you do, don’t you Killian?” she says softly. “You’ve always seen things others don’t, seen and accepted them without judgment. You embrace the world in all its strange and wondrous tapestry because deep down you’ve always known that there is more to it than meets the eye. Haven’t you?” 

“A-aye.” Killian clears his throat. There’s light behind his eyes and on his skin and in his very bones. “I believe I have.” 

“You wandered for years observing that world and seeking your place in it,” Emma continues, “until the time was right and you were called here, to a haven for the lost and the cursed.” 

He nods. He can feel her words, and he can feel the truth in them, a truth he’s always felt but never understood. “Why was the time right now though?” he asks, a wealth of pain behind the question. “After so many years, why now?” 

“Because now is when you truly needed it.” 

“I needed it before—” he chokes, but she shakes her head, tears shimmering again in her eyes. 

“Now is when you truly needed it,” she whispers. “And I—I need you.” 

She takes his hand, smiling as he catches his breath at the magic that leaps between them. “It won’t always be like this,” she says. “If you come to me, eventually our magic will settle. Right now it’s really new and you just—excite it.” 

He smiles at this, and at the flutter in his chest. “I excite your magic?” 

“Mmmm,” she replies with a wry smirk. “Among other things.” 

David swishes his tail and gives a hacking cough. 

“Hairball?” queries Emma sweetly. 

“But love.” Killian turns his hand in hers so that their fingers entwine, shivering at the power that crackles between their palms. “What do you mean if I come to you? And why do you say our magic?” 

“You don’t think that all this only comes from me?” Emma gestures at him, at the silvery light from his hand that mingles with the golden glow of hers. “You have magic too. It’s what had me so scared that day in the garden. I had been shown your origins and the True Love potential, but not the magic. There’s so much in you, Killian. If you come to my world, you’ll learn just how much.” 

“Come to your world?” He stares at her in awe. “I can do that?” 

“If you wish.” She smiles at his expression, then her own turns solemn. “But it’s a one-way journey. Once you go, you can never come back. Not fully.” 

“I’ll go.” 

She shakes her head. “This is a big decision. You need to think about it.” 

“I don’t believe I do.” Killian feels as he is sure a ship must, when docking at last in her native harbour after a journey long and fraught and rife with loss. It’s a homecoming he has never known, not truly. Not until now. 

“The world I’m in holds nothing for me now,” he says. “Everything I once had is gone—my family, my career, even my bloody hand. I was barely living anymore... until I met you.” He draws their clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of hers, and their magic sings. “If we have True Love, or the potential for it,” he continues, “if there’s a chance I might see my mother again—well, I don’t have to think about either of those. I want them both, and if there is danger to be faced in the pursuit of them, I’ll face it. I’ll go.” 

The light of Emma’s smile holds no surprise for him this time nor does the joyous dance of their magic through the air, though David’s approving purr does rather take him aback. Emma stands and he follows, their hands still joined, by touch and by magic and by choice. 

“Come, then,” she says. 

As she speaks the shimmer between their hands brightens to a glow that spreads out from where they stand, silver light entwined with gold and curling open as a spring bud unfolds, until it reaches the arched doorway that leads to the shop. The light bursts—blinding for a moment—then it fades into a gentle gleam and the door swings open. 

Emma’s hand tightens in his, and they step through the doorway together.

- 

@kmomof4​ @stahlop​ @mariakov81​ @teamhook​ @winterbaby89​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @shireness-says​ 

[frauleinsmaria]

Meredith’s Favorite Fics Moodboard | @csficrecmonday

Somebody Waits for You by @pocket-anon

After years trying to make things work with a bad boyfriend/business partner, Emma Swan abandons New York for a fresh start in Boston with her son, looking for a way to live her life and run her coffee shop on her own terms. Enter Killian Jones, the pretty perfect owner of the bookstore next door who’s just the man to help her do it. But even the perfect guy can be haunted by his past, and the events of the Christmas season help reveal that maybe it’s not so much about her needing him as about them needing each other.

Okay, maybe I’m a bit biased since this fic was written for me as a CSSS gift in 2016, so I had a bit of a hand in choosing some of the tropes and plot points. But partiality aside, this is a lovely, heartfelt story that’s beautifully written and captures these characters so well. A big part of the fic is centered around Christmas, but it doesn’t have to be the holiday season to give this a read and have your heart warmed by it.

[luobingmeis]

talk about a carey/killian modern au. one of them owns a flower shop, the other a tattoo shop. how do they fall head over heels

stephano u are speaking my motherfucking language here!!!!!!!

killian owns the flower shop. it started as a family business in her home town but, when killian moved to a new city, she thought it would be a good time to “expand the brand,” so to speak

carey owns the tattoo shop. she’s worked at the shop since she was sixteen, first just answering phone calls and making appointments, then for a couple years she worked as an artist, and then the old owner had to move but didn’t want to shut down, so he handed it off to carey

the stores are across the street from each other

to the right of the florist is a bakery. to the left of the florist is a bookstore. to the right of the tattoo shop is a speech therapy practitioner. to the left of the tattoo shop is a building currently being constructed on.

killian knows Literally No One in these other businesses

carey, on the other hand...

her best friend, magnus, who she met in college and is her current roommate is also working on the construction in the building next door. she met taako, one half of the twins that own the bakery, and merle, davenport’s boyfriend and someone very interested in this new florist across the street, through magnus. she met lup, second half of the twins, through taako. she met barry, biology professor at the local college, through lup. she met lucretia, the owner of the bookstore across the street, years back when she had to work two jobs and, for a duration, was a cashier at her store. she met davenport, the speech therapist from next door, through merle.

it also helped that they all worked in a very close vacinity to one another

but, yes, killian is super new to the city and doesn’t know Anyone and is just trying to keep her store afloat and not go poor

the first person she hires is a guy named avi and, within their first shift working together, they came out of it best friends

she then quickly accumulates other employees, like boyland (who needed a third job to help support his family) and robbie (who killian isn’t quite sure what actually does when he isn’t working) and noelle (a freshman at the local college who needed some money and activated killian’s older-sister instincts)

and then she meets merle. this older guy with a big bushy beard and a hawaiian shirt who just strolls into her shop one day and spends about thirty minutes looking at all the flowers and plants and nodding to himself, even murmuring some things, before looking at killian behind big round glasses, grinning, and saying, “pretty fuckin’ nice place you got here”

killian blinks. “thanks?”

before merle leaves, he has a job there and his first shift the next day.

killian meets davenport through merle when the two walked to work from their apartment down the street the next morning. she meets lucretia the next day because lucretia stopped by to introduce herself when she realized that the two never met. she technically meets lup through lucretia because lup saw her walk into the flower shop. she meets taako right after because she met lup. she meets barry technically on accident, because he came it to buy a bouquet of roses for his girlfriend’s birthday and only when lup came into her store talking about the roses she got did killian realize she met her boyfriend. avi meets magnus first, so killian meets magnus through him.

she meets carey last, because that’s how things like this work

she was just starting to close up when she heard the bell above her door chime. she’s almost frustrated, it’s been a long day and she was already yelled at by a stressed husband who forgot his anniversary and was surprised that he couldn’t get an arrangement in five minutes, except, turning to face the door, she just stares at the girl standing there for a moment

she looks around killian’s age, though perhaps half her size. she has short hair dyed blue, a septum piercing, two eyebrow piercings, snake bites, and both her ears nearly completely done. what catches killian’s attention the most is the sleeve going down her left arm that looks like blue scaling, and it reaches down her hand as well to wrap around her fingers as if it was a fingerless glove.

she’s the most beautiful woman killian has ever seen

the girl catches her looking and flashes a grin at killian. “hey there.”

killian blinks. “hi.”

the girl approaches the counter that killian is standing behind, looking around at the hanging plants. “you’re killian, yeah?” killian nods. “i think i’m the only person around here that hasn’t stopped in to say hi.”

killian, ever the eloquent speaker when it comes to pretty girls, says, “well, hi.”

and the girl actually laughs, which is enough to make killian’s day, or at least make her smile. “i’m carey.”

after that, the two seem to just find reasons to go over to each other’s shops on their breaks. first, it’s because taako and lup are having half-off all cupcakes at their bakery, and carey thought she would just stop by. then, it’s because killian’s always thought about getting a tattoo, so she might as well look at some of the art. then, it’s because lucretia finally added a cafe to her bookstore, and carey thought she’d get killian something. next, it’s because killian found out that carey’s shop does piercings, too, and she figured why not. because they want to be better friends. because magnus wanted to say hi and carey decided to come along. because lucretia and killian have gotten close and she wanted killian to go with her to get a tattoo done. because. because. because.

because killian thinks she’s been in love with carey since the moment carey walked into her store, even if she didn’t know it yet. because carey made killian’s heart soar and made her stop being scared of living on her own. because killian smiled whenever she saw carey across the street in her own shop.

the business owners all become close friends. they all grab snacks from the twins’ bakery together and sit with each other through piercing and tattoo appointments. they relax in lucretia’s store and all jokingly heckle magnus when they see him working outside. they help merle and killian set up the outside flower display when the weather gets nice and sit in the backroom of the bakery with barry while he grades tests and chill in the AC of davenport’s lobby when there aren’t many patients for the day.

they’re all best friends now, but killian is terrified of ruining that with carey. what if she’s just misreading everything? what if carey already has a girlfriend and she’s just super private? what if what if what if

important note: literally everyone but carey knows that killian is in love with her. even taako’s new boyfriend who none of them have met yet because taako is actually private knows that killian is in love with carey

also very important note: also literally everyone but killian knows that carey feels the same way

it happens in killian’s shop when she’s the last one closing up

carey comes in, and the sun setting behind her makes her look magical, and killian can’t help but stare as she walks in

“what are you looking at?” carey asks

“you,” killian says

carey laughs and rolls her eyes. “thanks, captain obvious.”

carey walks behind the counter and props herself up on it, looking up at killian. killian, who had just wiped down that part of the counter, didn’t mind.

“we’re going to the bar down town tonight,” carey tells her. “we’re finally meeting the elusive dr. kravitz so what better way then to get absolutely fucking hammered with him?”

killian laughs. “will you need a ride?”

carey smirks. “how ladylike.”

“just because last time we all went out, you and magnus tried to sleep on a park bench because you thought the four-block walk back to your place was too long.”

carey arches an eyebrow up at killian. “are you making fun of me?”

killian smirks and shrugs. “only stating the truth.”

in the next 2.5 seconds, they are making out on the counter, but that is neither here nor there

that same night, hell, in the next ten minutes, they’re talking out their feelings and realizing that they have both been head over heels for months. and they laugh. they laugh a lot because of course everyone but them knew.

also tho, just know that a lot of other rom-com stuff happens before this. magnus and avi try wingmanning them. taako and lup debate sending each of them valentine’s day donuts under the name of their respective crushes. merle has to hear killian talk about carey every day at work and goes home to davenport to try to concoct a plan. lucretia just so happens to leave romance books in each of their shops. somehow, barry’s students have also tried to give their two cents on what the girls should do. even kravitz is like, “oh, finally!” when he hears that carey and killian finally got together

they get an appartment together and adopt two cats and a lizard and their appartment is always decorated with flowers and carey gave killian her first tattoo and they have weekly dinners with their friends at each other’s appartments and magnus helps carey choose an engagement ring and they get married at the beach near killian’s childhood home and they live happily ever after

and roll credits!!!!!

[welllpthisishappening]

Captain Swan Fic Rec Monday 2: Electric Boogaloo

Hello, kind internet! It’s Monday! It’s time to rec some more things! And make TV references that don’t go with Once Upon a Time at all! Here we go. 

Today’s rec is @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt who is, in a word, delightful. A goddamn delight. That’s two words. They’re both accurate! Jordy has fantastic taste (and I’m not just saying that because most of her taste matches up with my taste) but she is also incredibly kind and wonderfully talented and has written some real good CS fics that you should go out of your way to read. You can read all of her work on Ao3. Let’s discuss some of them, shall we?

All Things Considered 

Rating: Mature // Word Count: 14.9K 

When word of Robert Siegel's departure from NPR's "All Things Considered" goes public, Emma gets the chance to compete for her dream job. All that stands in her way are nine fellow journalists - one of them being the charismatic yet cocky Killian Jones. When she ends up paired with Killian on the first story, things get more complicated as she tries to balance fighting for her long-time aspiration and her budding relationship with this fascinating fellow reporter.

You like banter? You like tension? You like bantery-tension? Cool. Read this. You don’t have to be crazy familiar with NPR (trust me, I’m not) to understand this or appreciate it because Jordy does such a great job of setting the scene. It’s a fantastic world to dive into and just hang out in for awhile. 

Rum and Cupcakes 

Rating: Teen // Word Count: 49K

When a bookstore moves in across the street from Emma Swan's cupcake bakery, she thinks there's no way she'll ever get along with the new business owner. The new shop owner disagrees.

One of the tags on Ao3 for this story is “platonic cuddling that is in no way platonic” and if that’s not enough to get you to read then, like, reconsider how you choose stories. Also, pining! Of the mutual variety! ENEMIES. TO. FRIENDS. TO. LOVERS. 

Of Swans and Pirates and Broken Sinks

Rating: Mature // Words: 2K

Emma and Killian slip away from a family dinner at Granny's.

You know what I love? Kissing. And established relationships. And disasters that aren’t really that because they’re kind of funny. And then more kissing. This has all of it! 

Morning Routine 

Rating: T // Words 2K

An exploration of Captain Swan's bedtime/morning routine.

Fluff on fluff on fluff. But not, like, the kind of fluff where you read it and kind of go...ah, that’s unrealistic. This is the opposite! It’s adorable and exactly what we’d all want for Emma and Killian who are so goddamn comfortable around each other here. Like they’re in love! Agh, they love each other a lot. 

[demisexualemmaswan]

six impossible things before breakfast

Summary: Emma has GOT to stop ogling the hot dad of Henry's newest classmate. Yeah he owns a bookshop, and yeah he's a ridiculously devoted dad but does it make him that attractive anyway? (Of course it does.)

A/N: Thank you everyone who made this event possible and allowing me to participate! Happy @csjanuaryjoy ! This prompt was very loosely inspired by the thought I had about how it would probably suck to start a new school at the beginning of January. Enjoy!

Read on Ao3 here. 

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Emma hadn’t even opened the door all the way when her ten year old nearly careened into her. “Woah, kid, where’s the--”

“We have to go to the store right now, c’mon!” Henry exclaimed, tugging on Emma’s hand, trying to pull her back down the stairs from the apartment.

“Kid, I just got home--”

“We have a new student in class and she missed the Secret Snowflake because it’s January 2nd now and everyone’s still talking about their holiday gifts and she didn’t get any and we have to go get her one please!”

Emma had to admit, she was impressed by two things in that spiel. The first was that Henry said all of that in one breath. The second was that her kid had the biggest heart of anyone she knew, and even though she was exhausted from a long day of work, she wasn’t going to stop her kid from doing a good deed.

“All right, let’s go,” Emma said. Henry started to race ahead of her and she hollered after him, “But not until you put a hat, a scarf and a coat on, mister!” Chuckling as he darted back into the apartment, Emma let herself be warmed by her son’s enthusiasm, despite the cold, bitter wind outside.

Henry’s father was far out of the picture, and Emma had wondered from the beginning just how she was going to raise this little boy on her own. But she was glad she had made the decision to keep him all those years ago, especially given how much he added to her life.

For all his rushing and sprinting and yelling, Henry hadn’t forgotten to hug her before they headed down the stairs and back out into the cold. She cupped the back of his head, hoping that he’d never outgrow this.

Mother and son trudged through the slushy city streets to Henry’s favorite bookshop. “So how was work today?” Henry asked, kicking up a little slush with his boot.

“Fine,” Emma said with a grimace.

“That doesn’t sound fine,” Henry said worriedly, looking up at her. His eyes began to search for injuries before Emma gently ruffled his hair. He seemed to relax again before adding teasingly, “Mom, don’t tell me you’re behind on your paperwork again!”

“Guilty,” Emma admitted grudgingly and Henry laughed.

“You’d think one of Boston’s top detectives would be better at filling out paperwork,” Henry said despairingly, though the joking element in his voice was as clear as day.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Captain Holt,” Emma replied, still grinning from ear to ear. “While making sure things are done correctly is a really important of part of my job, sometimes that little stuff gets lost in the way of the bigger picture.”

“Like catching bad guys?”

“Like being home on time so my son can drag me out into the bookstore to get a gift for a new classmate.”

“Won’t David--I mean, Captain Nolan, be mad?” The note of worry that had once again entered her son’s voice, and she gently squeezed his hand. “No, no, he gets it. He said as long as I have it by the end of the week I won’t have to work overtime. And it’s not that bad, it’s only three or four cases.”

“Or seven,” Henry snorted and Emma nudged him with her shoulder. He opened the door to the bookstore and darted inside before she could get another word in edgewise.

Hook’s Nook was a little Mom and Pop bookshop that recently just changed owners. The couple that had owned it before, Liam and Elsa, were dearly fond of Henry and had probably plied him with more books than they probably could’ve afforded to. Henry and Emma had been glad that the two had gotten married, and then devastated when Liam and Elsa moved. They had yet to meet the new owner, but Liam assured Henry that Hook’s Nook couldn’t be in better hands.

“You’re only getting this book for your friend!” Emma called after him as his little blue beanie disappeared into the many shelves. “I mean it, Henry! My apartment looks like a small library!” She chuckled to herself as his mop of brown hair quickly disappeared, knowing her boy was on the hunt for a book.

“Your lad is a voracious reader then?” A low chuckle caught her attention, and she looked to see a pair of blue eyes glimmering amusedly at her. A man with dark hair and scruff was leaning against the counter, smirking up at her.

Her jaw opened a little and she might’ve blinked once or twice. “You’re not Liam,” is what eloquently spilt out of her mouth.

“No, I am not. Very astute of you,” the man said wryly. He came from around the corner to shake Emma’s hand. “I’m Killian, Liam’s younger brother. Arrived from England a few weeks ago.”

“So that’s what he meant when he said that he was leaving the shop in good hands,” Emma mused, shaking his hand firmly She tried to remember if Liam had mentioned a brother in passing and when she couldn’t think of one, she decided that it might’ve never come up, given that she hated the topic of family all together. Still, she could tell that Liam and Killian had a good relationship, as Killian withdrew his hand and scratched behind his ear, clearly both embarrassed and pleased by his brother’s praise.

“Are you Emma, then?” Killian asked. Her eyes widened with surprise, and he added, “Liam mentioned you and--.”

“I found it!” Henry declared triumphantly, worming between them to put the book on the counter. It was a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , a bit tattered and worn but still readable. “This is what I’m going to give her!” he said to his mom.

A moment passed before Henry realized he’d interrupted the two adults. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, looking between his mom and Killian.

“It’s all right,” Emma said kindly, ruffling her boy’s hair. “C’mon, I’ll pay Killian and then we’ll go home. I know you: you haven’t eaten dinner yet and you haven’t even begun to start on your homework before I got home.”

Henry smiled sheepishly and Killian laughed, a warm sound that settled in Emma’s chest. “This is Liam’s little brother,” she introduced.

“Younger,” Killian said irately, but there was a playful gleam in his eyes.  “I’m Killian’s younger brother, Liam.” Henry looked at the man in confusion and Killian realized his mistake. “I mean, Liam’s younger brother Killian.” It was Killian’s turn to blush now, especially when Emma and Henry both laughed.

Emma just happened to casually check her phone and she gasped when she realized just how late it had gotten. “Oh my god, kid, it’s almost eight o’clock, we have to go home!” she exclaimed. Emma paid for the book and put it in Henry’s backpack, slinging her arm around Henry’s shoulder. “Goodnight, Killian,” she said, all but ushering Henry out of the door.

“I’ll see you around, won’t I?” he called after them. The door clattered behind them, and Emma realized halfway home that they’d never given him an answer. She hoped she’d get to see him again. And soon.

“Starfish,” Killian said gently, walking with Alice to school. A few days had passed since Emma and Henry had visited him in the bookshop, and while he found himself thinking of them from time to time, he couldn’t ignore the problem he had on his own hands. Just a week in a new school and Alice was already being bullied by her peers. He knew it was because Alice was imaginative and was the most creative person he knew, and children were never bound to appreciate that. Besides, it didn’t help matters that they were somewhat poor, and Alice’s clothes weren’t as well kept as her classmates’. Still, there was no reason for the little jabberwockys to pick on his Alice. He had written to the teacher asking her to look into the matter, but the response he received filled him with very little confidence in the matter. While Killian Jones prided himself in being an attentive father, he certainly didn’t think of himself as a helicopter parent and to be called--or even implied so--was quite insulting. Especially when he knew the matter was more serious than he ever could’ve imagined.

His once vivacious and wild girl seemed like a completely different person, now a shadow at his side, clinging to him and hiding away. He prayed that the spring months would come soon, bringing relief to her gloom and hopefully a new friend with it.

“I don’t want to go to school, Papa,” she mumbled.

“Just because you don’t like school doesn’t mean I can’t let you stay home.” He kissed the top of her head and she seemed to curl more into his side and his heart broke. “I’m sure they’re not all bad. All you need is one person to make it less bearable.”

“Well,” Alice started shyly. “There’s this boy--”

“A boy?” Killian spluttered, not sure if he was ready for that.

“No like that , Papa! Boys are gross!” Alice groaned, making a face up at her father. “No, there’s a boy in my class. He gave me a present on my second day, saying that he was my Secret Snowflake...I guess it’s an American gift-giving thing for Christmas.”

“Well that was very kind of him,” Killian murmured, relieved that he didn’t have to worry about dating and preteen hormones on top of everything. Gruffly, he added, “You know you’re not allowed to date until you’re married, right?”

“Papa,” Alice giggled, and he softened, glad he could bring a smile back to her face. The light in her eyes kept on, as she pointed ahead of her. “Look! There he is! Henry!” she called, waving to the boy. “Come meet my Papa!”

The boy weaved through the crowd the same way he weaved through the bookshelves in his store. “Oh, hello, Killian!” Henry said cheerfully, looking up at the man. “I didn’t know you were Alice’s dad!” He looked back at his friend. “I brought it with me! My first Spider-man comic! I thought we could read it together a little bit before class started! You’ll love Spider-man: it’s a classic!”

“Henry! Are you forgetting something?” A tall man, blond and fair held a lunchbox by his head.

“Sorry, David!” Henry called back, running through the crowd.

“He calls his father David?” Killian asked confusedly, watching the boy disappear through the crowd.

“David’s not his father,” Alice said, as if it were obvious and he should’ve known that. “David is his mother’s brother. Henry doesn’t have a father.” If she had any thoughts on the matter, Alice didn’t voice them. She did, however, lean up and kiss her father on the cheek before racing after Henry.

“Huh,” he murmured to himself. “How about that.”

“Emma!” A voice called her from the warm cup of cocoa she was about to sip. Her eyes narrowed: whoever it was better had something good to say. Hot cocoa time was Emma time. Looking around, she saw Killian Jones running toward her.

“Oh,” she said, ignoring the way her traitorous heart began to beat faster at the sight of him. “Hey, Killian. What’s up?”

Killian was fishing through his pockets before handing a few crumpled up bills to her. “This is for the book.”

“Huh?” Emma asked confusedly, wondering if Henry had done something behind her back like sold a book to help her with money or something. She was going to have to have a long talk with that boy one of these days--

“The book your lad bought the other day. Was for my Alice. She’s the new student in his class.”

“Oh,” Emma repeated, deflating a little bit. That meant Killian had a wife. Not that it mattered to Emma in any way, shape or form. She was lucky the cold wind was there to hide the redness of her cheeks or at least gave her a convenient excuse for looking flushed. “No, keep your money. It’s fine. I’m trying to teach Henry the merits of good-deed-doing and that’s definitely a good deed. Trying to make someone not feel left out.”

Killian reached back behind his ear and scratched. Damn it, why was that so adorable?

“Can I buy you lunch then?” he asked hopefully. “Single parent to single parent?”

Emma tried not to perk up at that. So there wasn’t a Mrs. Jones. Well, there was if you counted Elsa as a Mrs. Jones to Liam. The point was that there wasn’t a Mrs. Jones for Killian.

“Yeah, sure,” she said casually, gesturing to a nearby cafe, smiling now. There was something about sharing her favorite place with him that was new and exciting “I know a place that makes some great hot cocoa."

“I’m screwed,” Emma groaned, putting her forehead against her desk. “I’m the worst person that ever existed ever.”

“Why? Because your older brother caught you sneaking back into the precinct with that look on your face?” Mary Margaret, David’s wife, teased.

“Partially,” Emma admitted, sitting up straight. Not looking at Mary, she mumbled, “And because of what put the smile on my face.”

“Emma, did you go for a quickie on your lunch break?” Mary Margaret gasped, sliding her chair in next to Emma. “No judgement, I swear, but that’s so unlike you!”

“No, no,” Emma replied, though maybe her thoughts had drifted toward what kissing Killian could be like while he was talking. “I just...I have a stupid crush on someone I shouldn’t. That’s all.”

Mary Margaret’s hand all but dug into her arm, eyes pleading for the details. Any noise, however, would alert David and Emma wasn’t sure she wanted her brother to know about this yet. Above all, she was grateful for her friend’s discretion.

“It’s the new owner of Hook’s Nook. Killian,” Emma muttered.

“Is he married or something?” Mary Margaret asked lowly.

“I wish it were that,” Emma sighed. “I…” She rest her head against her friend’s briefly. “His daughter, Alice, is the new kid in Henry’s class. And over the past week or so they’ve become really close. And after all Killian said about how much Alice had been struggling to acclimate and how grateful he was that she had a friend in school, and how she was being bullied...I guess I don’t want to put the kids in the middle of it…” She looked at her friend sadly. “I remember being the new kid at the new school. I didn’t have any friends until I was placed with the Nolans. Until you and David..”

Looking down at her lap, she added wryly, “I still think Ruth bribed David to hang out with me until I became less prickly.” She tried to add a brave smile onto that sentence before sighing, “I can’t take Alice’s only friend away from her, no matter how much I want to date her stupidly hot dad.”

“Stupidly hot?” Mary Margaret asked.

“That’s what you got out of all that?” Emma asked exasperatedly.

Mary Margaret squeezed her hand. “I’ve known you a long time, Emma. I know how you feel about friendships, and how much they mean to you. Trust me, I know how lucky I am to be your friend…” She squeezed her hand again. “But if this works, Alice will have a friend for life. Any kid would be lucky to be friends with Henry. That boy is unafraid to give his love and give it all that he’s got.”

With a sad smile, she added, “He’s almost like you in his way.”

“Almost,” Emma agreed. “But Henry’s braver with his love than I ever could be.” Screwing up her face she added with a watery laugh, “Figures. Only you would take things like marriage and love out of a guy that I’ve only brought up once.”

“The fact that you brought him up at all tells me a lot.”

Emma had to admit that her friend was probably right.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to repeat that?” Emma asked, her voice rising higher in pitch. “I just need to make sure I’m not having like...a seizure or something. It’s January 10th, 2019 at 11:54 in the morning, and you’re saying my son, Henry David Swan, has been in a fight? I’m hearing that correctly?”

The whole precinct was staring at her now, their eyes wide. Most of them knew Henry the way she did: a bright, enthusiastic but ultimately gentle boy. She’d admittedly taught Henry some self-defense moves just in case he was ever mugged or anything, but she didn’t think it’d ever lead to him fighting anyone.

“Sorry, ma’am, you did hear all of that correctly,” the school principal’s secretary said apologetically. “We’re going to need you to come in for a meeting. The other parents are involved are already on their way.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be right there,” Emma groaned, putting the phone down.

Thoughts began to race in her head: What’s going on with Henry? Is he hurt? Have I caused this somehow?

Each thought turned over in her head, causing her heart to beat faster before David put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at her older brother desperately and he hugged her gently, cupping the back of her head.

“Go make sure everything’s okay,” he murmured. “Henry’s a bright kid with a bright future. One fight in the fifth grade is not going to ruin his life.” He squeezed her tightly one more time before adding firmly, “One fight in the fifth grade doesn’t mean you’ve ruined his life either, Emma. You’re an amazing detective and an even better Mom. Now go check on your boy, and that is an order from your Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Emma saluted halfheartedly with a wide grin on her face before racing to her car. She definitely broke some laws on the way there, but nobody stopped her and even if they had, she probably would’ve flashed her detective badge at them and been on her merry way.

Well maybe not so merry.

Pulling up to the school, she all but threw her yellow bug in park, and looked up at the brick building with apprehension swirling in her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and walked into the school.

“Hi, I’m here to see the principal,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and her tone polite. The security guard buzzed her into the building and another escorted her to the principal’s office.

Henry was sitting in one corner with Alice and Killian. Her eyes swept over her boy, relieved that he wasn’t hurt in anyway. Alice’s palms were scuffed up and the holes and dirt in her leggings suggested that her knees might have scrapes on them too. Emma frowned, thinking maybe for a second that maybe had Alice and Henry had somehow fought.

Then she caught the sight of two other boys with their parents on the other side of the room. They looked a little worse for wear, bumped and bruised and spooked, but she knew a bully when she saw one. 

Emma stalked over to sit behind Henry, drawing a protective arm around her kid, glowering at the principal. She was pretty sure she could already deduce what happened, based on the state of the two bullies on the other side.

“Good,” the principal said. “We’re all here then.” He looked over at Henry. “Now, young man, flipping people into tables is not any way to solve your problems.”

“I didn’t flip Nelson into the table, I flipped him over it,” Henry muttered. “And then Scut tried to hit me so I flipped him too.”

“Henry, are you kidding me?” Emma burst out, unable to contain it. Of all the moves she’d thought he used, she didn’t think it would be that one. “I only taught you that one to protect yourself, not so that you could use it on other people.”

“You taught him that?” the principal asked, trying to keep his voice from sounding too judgemental. Next to her, Killian looked incredibly impressed and that did funny things to her chest. But that wasn’t the important thing at the moment.

“Yeah, I’m a police detective, I’m sure that’s on a form somewhere,” Emma growled. Seeing the look on Henry’s face--the worry that she wouldn’t back him up or support him--Emma forced herself to soften and take a deep breath. She was all too familiar with parents who wouldn’t have supported her in the past. “Now, I know I taught you better than that. That’s a dangerous move and you could’ve really hurt someone without meaning to. What happened, huh?”

“They pushed Alice,” Henry murmured, just loud enough for everyone to hear but he was mostly looking at Emma. She gave her son an encouraging nod and a gentle smile and he continued. “There was some broken glass near the playground. Alice and I told the recess monitor like we were supposed to, but Scut and Nelson tried to push her into it. They thought it’d be funny if she got hurt on the glass…”

Emma looked up at the principal, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. The parents of Scut and Nelson opened their mouths, but Emma whipped her head around and silenced them with a glare.

“Mom?” Henry asked, drawing her attention back. “I...I know what I did was wrong. But they hurt Alice and I got mad and scared and I just...wanted to keep her safe. I’m sorry I let you down.”

“I’m not thrilled that you went about protecting your friend the way that you did,” Emma said. “And you and I need to talk about other ways you could’ve solved that problem.” She took in a deep breath and added with a smile, “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud, kid.” She wrapped her arms around her boy tightly.

“And you’re going to allow this?” one of the fathers sputtered to the principal. “This woman is clearly a dangerous influence.

“This woman is one of Boston’s finest!” Killian exclaimed, defending her before she could even open her mouth. “And you shouldn’t be commenting on someone else’s parenting. Your son nearly pushed my daughter into glass because he thought it was funny!”

Alice tugged on Killian’s sleeve and whispered something into his ear. In all the times Emma had known Killian, she’d never seen his face go so dark. He pulled up his phone and all but shoved it into the principal’s face.

“These boys were the ones I’ve been e-mailing her teacher and you about, in which I expressed that I was worried she was being bullied,” he snarled. “And I was told time and time again that the recess monitors would report back, and I shouldn’t be using the word bullying without proof and that Alice was perfectly safe. You’ve ignored my repeated pleas for help for my girl? For what reason? Because she’s new? Because she’s a girl? Oh, rest assured I’m taking this to the school board for your piss poor management of the situation.”

“Do you need a lawyer with your case? Because I know a few,” Emma said with a smirk, gently putting her hand on Killian’s arm. He looked about one second away from punching the principal and while Emma would’ve loved to do that, it was something that was probably best avoided.

“We’ll review the recess reports and I’ll call all of you later with a final decision on the punishment for those instigating violence,” the principal said meekly.

“Oh, I am eager for your call,” Killian growled. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go home and tend to my daughter’s scrapes.” He stood up and walked out with Alice.

Emma looked down at her son, who was trying so hard to hide his grin. “C’mon, kid,” she said. “I’m signing you out of school early. Let’s go home.” She closed the door behind her as she heard Nelson and Scut’s parents arguing loudly with the principal for their sons. “Hey, wanna get ice cream?” she asked.

Henry nodded and was about to head to the car before he rushed after Alice and Killian. “Do you wanna get ice cream?” he asked hopefully. He looked over his shoulder back at Emma and she smiled, coming up to stand beside him.

“Yeah, join us, Joneses. I think some victory ice cream over the Jabberwocky is needed,” Emma said.

Killian would later say it was the look in her eyes then that nearly took his breath away.

“So, you taught Henry how to flip someone over a table?” Killian asked curiously. Alice and Henry were standing at the jukebox, occasionally looking over their shoulders at their parents and whispering conspiratorially to one another.”

“I mean...well, yeah. I know its unorthodox parenting but I do it all the time at work,” Emma said with a shrug. “Besides. If anyone came after him, he’d be able to protect himself.”

“What have you needed it for?” Killian asked, leaning in.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Emma retorted playfully.

“Perhaps I would.” Killian smiled and gently slipped his hand around hers. “His mother must be one hell of a tough lass. I’d love to get to know her better. Perhaps Saturday night over dinner? Just her and I?”

“Are you really asking me out while our ten year olds are watching us?” Emma asked, a delighted smile coming to her face. Killian laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling, and the ten year olds by the jukebox giggled too.

“Aye,” Killian murmured softly. “What do you say?”

“Well, I think we made one hell of a good team back there, Jones. I say you can pick me up at six.”

[captain-hen]

crush 1/2

Hey, @high-seas-swan ! I was your secret santa! I’’m terribly sorry that this is so late and that I’m only posting one part of it. I suddenly took ill yesterday and I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone write. I hope you like the story! AUs are not my strong point but I did my best. I’ll try to post the next part as soon as possible.

If Killian is being honest, the whole reason he meets Emma Swan is all because of those damn Pop Tarts.

 He doesn’t normally get unholy cravings for junk food at strange hours, but there’s a first for everything, Killian supposes as he enters the grocery store at 9 pm, pulling his beanie down over his eyes self consciously, hoping desperately that he doesn’t get noticed. The last thing he needs is for a line of fans asking for his autograph. And Killian, soft hearted fool that he is, can never bring himself to deny them.

 He’s studiously browsing the selection of Pop Tarts like any normal, functioning adult, when someone steps beside him, saying, “I recommend the chocolate ones. They’re pretty damn awesome.”

 Killian freezes in place for a moment before turning to look at the owner of the voice. It’s a young woman who looks to be about his age. She’s bloody gorgeous, with her long golden curls and sparkling green eyes. Killian does his best not to stare, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. She doesn’t seem to recognize who he is, thankfully.

 “The chocolate?” he manages to get out, hoping his blush isn’t too obvious. She nods.

 “They’re perfect for anyone with a sweet tooth.”

 Killian picks up the box and offers her a smile. “Well, thank you for your input, Miss…?”

 She smirks and he does his best to look innocent, knowing his attempt to find out her marital status wasn’t exactly subtle. She doesn’t seem offended though, so there’s that.

 “Swan. Emma Swan.”

 “It’s a pleasure to meet you then, Swan.”

 Emma grins at his use of her last name and tips her head in a nod, picking up her own box of Pop Tarts and walking away. Killian stares after her for a few moments, a dazed look on his face. He isn’t one to develop schoolboy crushes, especially not at his age but damn.

Emma Swan is truly the loveliest woman he’s met in a while and although he’s only talked to her for about thirty seconds, Killian can’t help but hope he’ll see her again.

 When he heads back home, Pop Tarts in tow and sits at his laptop, he can feel the writer’s block that had plagued him for the last couple of days slip away. Killian types away for the next couple of hours before he finally gets up, stretching his limbs, to gorge on the sugary snack that he definitely has no business eating.

 (It’s delicious.)

 “Henry, I got your snacks,” Emma calls out as she shuts the apartment door behind her. Her twelve year old son is curled up on the couch with a book, other novels of  the same series scattered around him. Emma grins when he doesn’t even lift his head, clearly engrossed in what he’s reading.

 She clears her throat. “Kid.”

 Henry looks up, then. “Oh, hey, mom,” he puts his book down and jumps off the couch to relieve her of the snacks. Emma glances around at the cluttered living room and sighs.

 “Let’s clear this mess up and then eat, kid.”

 Henry grumbles, but does as she says gathering up his books in his arms to put away. Emma picks up the one he missed, idly flicking open the cover and her jaw drops.

 The photo of the author, Killian Jones, is the cute guy she met in the grocery store.

 “Oh my god,” Emma mutters. Henry will never let her hear the end of it he gets to know that she ran into his favorite author and didn’t even get him an autograph. In Emma’s defense, he didn’t really look like a bestselling author. Sure, he was ridiculously hot, but in an adorable kind of way, with his rumpled hair sticking out from under his beanie and his bright, absurdly blue eyes. Of course, this explains the deer-in-headlights look on his face when she spoke to him. He was probably afraid of being recognized.

 Shaking her head, Emma puts the book down. Really, what were the chances that she ran into a famous author at a grocery store of all places? It sounds absurd and she’s sure that Henry would be skeptical if she told him.

 Well, there’s no use dwelling on it.

 It’s not like she’s ever going to see the guy ever again.

  Between working on his novel and attending fan conventions, Killian barely has any time to think about Emma Swan.

 But once everything has settled down and his only real responsibility is finishing the final draft of his book and taking care of himself (he’s incredibly bad at the latter, and he’s sure his brother would give him hell about it if he were here.), Killian finds himself visiting the store where he met Emma more and more, clinging on to a rather pathetic hope of seeing her. He feels like a bloody teenager with a crush and knows he should’ve asked for her number when he met her, but here he is.

 And a couple of weeks later, Killian actually does run into her.

 It’s not at the grocery store, but in a bookshop run by a dear friend of Killian’s, Belle French. He stops at the counter, chatting with her, when Emma Swan sweeps into the shop past him, her blonde hair swinging over her shoulder.

 Killian makes some kind of hasty excuse to Belle and ignoring her knowing smirk, he hurries after Emma.

 “Hello, Swan!” Her body stills and when she turns to face him, to Killian’s relief, she at least seems to remember him.

 “Oh, hey,” Emma gives him a kind of hesitant smile, fiddling with her bag. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

 “This happens to be one of my favorite haunts, Swan.”

 Emma laughs. “I guess it would be surprising if it weren’t, seeing as you’re a writer and all that.” At his stunned look, she smiles sheepishly. “I didn’t really who you were until I got home and saw my son buried in one of your books.”

“Ah, I see,” Killian chuckles. “It’s rather refreshing to not be recognized, I suppose. You have a son, you said? How old is the lad?”

 Emma smiles proudly. “Twelve. His name is Henry. He loves reading, and he loves your books even more. In fact-you’ve got to give me an autograph for him. He’ll be furious if he knows that I met you and I didn’t get him an autograph.”

 “Well, we can’t have that, now,” Killian pulls a notepad out of his pocket and grins at her incredulous look. “Writer, love.”

 Along with his autograph, Killian leaves a little message for Henry. After a bit of hesitation, he writes his number on another sheet and hands both pages to Emma. She raises a brow at it.

 “You’re subtle,” Emma says drily. Killian laughs nervously.

 “You can’t blame a man for trying, love.”

 “Look-“ Emma hesitates and Killian feels his heart sink. “I’m really not-I’m really not up for dating right now. You’re really sweet, but-“

 “That’s alright, love,” Killian interrupts. “I suppose I was too forward, anyhow.”

 “No, no,” she reassures him. “You weren’t, I’m just-not ready, I guess.”

 Killian nods. “I understand, Swan,” He really does. After he lost his wife, Milah in a car accident, he’d been in a terrible place and it had taken almost five years to even consider dating again. “I would, however, be honored to have the pleasure of your friendship.”

 Emma’s eyes widen and she looks rather suspicious. “Really?”

 “Really,” Killian confirms. “I may be a bestselling author, but I don’t exactly have a lot of friends, and I’d love to have you as one. I solemnly swear that I will not attempt to woo you-unless you wish for it, of course.” He waggles his eyebrows at her and she rolls her eyes.

 “Keep dreaming, buddy,” but she’s smiling, and clutches the papers a little tighter. “But, uh, thanks for the autograph. Henry will be over the moon. Speaking of which-“ she checks her watch. “I’d better pick up Henry’s book for him now if I don’t want to be late for work.”

 “Which book?”

 “One of yours, actually. The book which was released lately.”

 “Ah. Well, I hope he’ll enjoy it,” Killian says. “I must be off, myself. But I trust I’ll hear from you soon?”

 Emma laughs and shakes her head. “Sure thing.”

 Killian heads home and nothing can take the wide, goofy smile off his face for the rest of the day.

 He might not have gotten the right to court Emma yet, but he has gotten her friendship and that in itself is a true gift.

 “You met Killian Jones?!” Henry nearly screeches.

 Emma smiles at his excitement and holds out the autograph wordlessly. Henry takes it almost reverently, his mouth hanging open as he tries to process the news.

 “What was he like?” Henry asks breathlessly.

 Oh, you know. Hot, kind of adorable and he sort of asked me out. But none of those are appropriate answers. Emma shrugs in an attempt to be casual. “He was…interesting.”

 Henry is no longer listening, too absorbed in the autograph. Emma grins and leaves him to it, shutting herself in her room before she takes out the sheet of paper with Killian’s number on it.

 If she’s being honest, the idea of dating him is pretty appealing. He’s cute, funny and clearly interested in her. Emma knows that by societal standards, she’s crazy for saying no. But something about the way she feels drawn to this man and finds herself laughing and smiling in his presence a bit more than usual is dangerous. The last time Emma opened her heart to someone, it backfired in the worst way possible.

 She can’t take that risk again.

 Killian had taken her by surprise, though. Few of the men who have asked her out over the years were interested in nothing more than getting into her pants. But this man-he took her rejection gracefully and even asked for her friendship, to boot.

 Emma hesitates for just a few minutes longer before she messages him.

 Hey.

 It’s Emma, from the bookstore.

 It takes a few more minutes, but he responds.

 Hello, love. Good to hear from you.

 Emma grins widely at the reply, firmly ignoring the flutter in her chest at being called ‘love’ even over text.

 Henry was thrilled with the autograph.

 Killian replies immediately.

 Glad to hear it! How does he like the new book?

 He just started it, which probably means I won’t get a peep out of him till tomorrow morning.

 Well, that’s quite flattering. :)

 Emma snorts at the message, shaking her head.

 Someone’s got a big ego.

 Guilty as charged, love.

 They text for a while longer, but Emma has to cut the conversation short soon so she can see about getting Henry’s dinner ready. But long after, and through dinner, Killian lingers on her mind.

 It’s nice to have a friend. Emma doesn’t have all that many. If she thinks about it, she can only count David, her partner in the BPD and his wife, a sweet school teacher named Mary Margaret. They’re both perfectly lovely and are like the family Emma never had, but she never got along with them as quickly as she is with Killian.

 The thought should worry her, but it’s only friendship, so it’s going to be okay, right?

 (At least, Emma hopes so. She has a habit of screwing up all her relationships.)

 When she’s getting ready for bed, she receives another message from Killian.

 You mentioned a job, but I still don’t know what your chosen profession is, Swan.

 Emma stifles a laugh at his over-the-top way of asking about her work and replies.

 I’m a detective in the BPD.

 He sends her a shocked emoji in reply and Emma can’t hold back her laughter this time.

 That sounds exciting! Got any intense cop stories for me?

 That depends, are you going to be entirely unoriginal and use them in your books?

 I would never!

 Well then, there was this one time…

  When the phone rings, Killian looks up from his computer in interest, hoping it’s Emma and sinks a little in disappointment when he realizes it’s only his editor.

 He’s developed a fairly good friendship with Emma over the past week. Their constant texting might be distracting him from his work, but at least he’s finished the final draft of his book, right? They talk about every topic imaginable-from perks and cons of their jobs to their plans for the Christmas holidays-which are three months away. (She’ll be spending the holidays in Boston itself with Henry. Killian will have his brother, Liam and his wife, Elsa, visiting him.)

 It’s been a good week.

 “Good evening, Tink,” Killian greets his editor. She’s become a close friend over the years and her services as his editor have been invaluable. “Did you read the draft?”

 “I did,” Tink says. “And I noticed something pretty interesting.”

 Killian frowns and opens up the draft on his laptop. He doesn’t think there is anything particularly extraordinary in it. “What did you notice?”

 “It has a bit of an emotional tinge to it,” Tink observes. “Your stories tend to focus more on the plot and as such, but there’s more emphasis on the relationships, this time. Particularly the romantic ones.”

 Killian shifts uncomfortably. He has an inkling of why that happened. “Is that a problem?”

 “Oh no, not at all,” Tink assures him. “It’s just…did you meet someone recently?”

 Killian winces. He’d been dreading this. He loves Tink, he really does, but her love for match making can be…trying, at times.

 “Maybe,” He says evasively and then quickly, before she can question him further, “But how was the draft?”

 “Good,” Tink says briskly, all business now. “It needs plenty of tweaking, of course, but this has great potential, Killian. It could be your best book yet.”

 Killian sags in relief. “That’s good to hear.”

 “Mm. Well, I’ve gotta go. I’ll send you my thoughts on it later.”

 “Thanks, Tink.”

 “No problem.” She hangs up and Killian stares at his phone with a grin, feeling excitement bubble up in him. His best book yet…that certainly sounds promising.

 He messages Emma immediately.

 Swan!

 Her reply comes almost immediately. What?

 I have wonderful news. My next book is coming along pretty well.

 I’d be concerned if it didn’t. You are a professional writer, after all.

 Hush, Swan, why can’t you be as enthused as I am and congratulate me?

 And feed your ever growing ego? Perish the thought.

 Killian frowns, and calls her.

 “Must you be so heartless, Swan?”

 “Always,” comes the cheerful reply. “I’m sure you have thousands of fans building up that pride of yours…someone has to bring you back down to earth.”

 “I’m starting to rethink my offer of friendship, love.”

 Emma laughs and the sound makes his heart jump. “Too late, Jones. You’re already in way too deep.”

 “I suppose I am,” Killian mutters with a sigh.

 If knowing Emma for but a week already has him blushing like a schoolboy at her calls and having her on his mind all the time, then, he’s bloody well buggered, isn’t he?

 It would be so incredibly easy to fall in love with her.

 And Killian isn’t sure if he wants to stop himself from doing so.

  “Mom, who are you texting?”

 Emma freezes guiltily, fingers hovering over her phone. Henry, of course, still has no idea that she’s struck up an unlikely friendship with his favorite author. She knew she had to tell him at some point, but she just couldn’t figure out how.

 It seems he’s beat her to it.

 “Killian Jones,” she mumbles and Henry’s eyes go wide.

 “What?” Before Emma can protest, he snatches the phone out of her hands and stares at the chain of texts in amazement. “Mom! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

 Emma shrugs helplessly and holds out her hand for her phone. Henry gives it back before launching into an interrogation.

 “When did this start? Why are you guys texting anyway? Did he tell you anything about his new book?”

 Emma patiently answers all these questions as well as she can. At the end of her explanation, Henry’s eyes are shining with excitement and he’s practically bouncing in his seat.

 “Mom, you’ve got to invite him over for dinner.”

 Emma blinks in surprise. “Henry…” she begins. “He’s a busy man, I don’t think…”

 Henry waves his hand impatiently. “He can’t be all that busy if he finds the time to send you funny cat videos, Mom,” Emma blushes at that and Henry continues, oblivious to her embarrassment. “Mr. Jones is my favorite author. It’s not fair that you’re the only one getting to talk to him all the time!”

 Realizing that there’s no way Henry’s going to let up on this and having a feeling that Killian would be all too delighted to come over, Emma relents with a sigh. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can do.”

 “Yes!” Henry bounds off his chair and hugs her. “You’re the best, Mom!”

 Emma smiles and kisses his hair and begins to think that this may not be such a bad idea, after all.

[searchingwardrobes]

Blackbird

Happy birthday, @shireness-says! I have so enjoyed all of our chats during the cssns about our love for the Brothers Jones, Frozen Jewel, and Captain Cobra. You write all of those so well, but I tried to give you some quality Captain Cobra for your birthday nonetheless along with a fic that sums up your love of art and books. I hope you like it and that your day has been awesome! It is of course, based on the Beatles song “Blackbird” which I think both Killian and Emma could relate to.

Summary: Magical Mystery Books is your stereotypical quirky bookstore. Killian Jones, however, is not your typical quirky bookstore owner. Neither are the dark yet beautiful pieces of art that hang over the cash register.

Rating: G

Words: 2,600 and some change

Also on Ao3

Part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist. Previous Gifts:Shatter Me|White Flag|Keep Your Eyes Open|Black Balloon|Suitcase|Halo|Stay|

Tagging: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @bethacaciakay @teamhook @kday426 @thislassishooked @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @vvbooklady1256 @let-it-raines @distant-rose

Henry was the one who found it; the quirky bookstore called Magical Mystery Books. It was one of those eclectic places with every genre imaginable from out of print gothic hardbacks to bestselling paperbacks to edgy graphic novels. Just like one would expect, it was crowded with volumes from floor to ceiling. Yet contrary to stereotype, it wasn’t messy. The place was not only immaculately clean but organized by genre and carefully alphabetized.

Yet exactly according to stereotype there was also the store owner and his one faithful employee who could find what you were looking for even with a vague description. However, defying stereotype, said store owner was not an eccentric old lady with a cat. Oh no, he was far from that.

Okay, Emma Swan had to admit, maybe slightly eccentric. But he was male and definitely not old. Neither was he a bookish looking fellow with a tweed coat and an awkward stammer. Though he did occasionally whip out a pair of black framed reading glasses.

No, Killian Jones did not look like a book store owner with his leather motorcycle jacket, his pierced ear, and his distractedly tight jeans. The kids loved to come to the book store for the great YA selection and vintage comics. The adults came to ogle the store’s owner. Or perhaps his lone employee Belle with her high heels, fashionable skirts, and perfect, wavy auburn hair.

Emma, however, came for her son. Henry swore that no other store had a better fantasy or sci fi collection, and once Henry had exhausted all of those, Mr. Jones gladly supplied him with more obscure recommendations. Both Jones and Belle adored Henry, a rare ten-year-old who stood in rapt fascination at their collection of original illustrations by Maurice Sendak and E.H. Shepherd which were under glass in the children’s section with a sign that read “not for sale.” They had once belonged to Belle’s mother, a dedicated bibliophile herself. Henry even soaked up stories Belle told about how her mother risked death in a house fire to save the illustrations.

“That boy will be a writer someday,” Killian commented to Emma as he rang up her purchases one afternoon.

The boy in question was poring over an Avengers comic protected by plastic circa 1969. She hoped he had noticed how many digits were on that price tag.

“He certainly has enough notebooks full of stories to publish one day.” Emma couldn’t help the mom brag. She certainly hadn’t expected to luck out with a kid like Henry the day she held that pregnancy test in her trembling hand at nineteen.

“Aye, he’s told me. I said I’d like to read them, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Emma assured Killian, “he won’t let me read them either.”

“Someday perhaps.”

Emma took the bag of paperbacks that hung from Killian’s prosthetic. She had never asked how he lost his left hand; she honestly didn’t know how one went about broaching such subjects. Henry didn’t know either, though Belle had alluded to some sort of accident when Killian was in the navy.

She thanked him, but before she turned to go, she noticed something new hanging above the register. It was mixed media art; a painting combined with some sort of collage technique. It was a dark painting with an outline of a bird done in such muted grays it almost blended into the background. Yet the collage technique gave the bird texture and a sense of movement. A quote was woven through the dark background: “Blackbird singing in the dead of night.”

“Beatles?” Emma asked, gesturing over his shoulder.

He smiled at her, but not the cocky one he gave to flirtatious customers. This one was more

genuine. “Know that song?”

Emma smiled in return. “My favorite Beatles song, actually.”

“Mine too.”

Emma shuffled her feet, something about his smile making prickles of nerves skitter across the back of her neck. “Well, I guess I see why you liked the painting then. And it makes the bookstore name make more sense. Then again you are British . . . “

She trailed off when she realized she was rambling.

“Ah, and all British people must like the Beatles.”

“Well, no, I mean – I didn’t mean -”

He laughed and waved his hand to dismiss her discomfort. “No offense taken, love.”

Face burning, Emma grabbed Henry and left as quickly as she could. It was easier when he focused all his attention on her son.

******************************************************

Henry had gotten to that age when he was suddenly harder to buy for. Most kids his age wanted electronics, and while she had saved up for a video game system last Christmas, most stuff was out of her price range. Thank God her kid liked books.

Of course, figuring out what he would like and what he hadn’t already read wasn’t easy. Hence why she was at Magical Mystery Books while Henry was at school. It wasn’t until she turned down an aisle to find Killian Jones with his ass literally in her face that it occurred to her she’d never been here without her son as a buffer. Jones was atop a rolling ladder shelving books on the top shelf, hence why his ass was at eye level. She noticed a bit of his abs as his shirt hitched up, and she averted her gaze as her cheeks burned. What was her problem? It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s . . . er, assets before.

Emma took a few steps back before clearing her throat to announce her presence. When he turned and saw her, he gave her that same grin again. The one that made his laugh lines crinkle and his cheeks dimple. The one that made her skin buzz like a live wire.

“Emma! It’s nice to see you here at this time of day. Let me guess, you’re looking for a gift for your lad.”

Emma arched her brows. “How’d you know that?”

He shrugged as he turned and headed down the sci fi aisle. “Well, time of day, plus Henry mentioned he had a birthday coming up.” He stopped, ran his fingertip along the bindings before him, then pulled out a slender volume.

“A Wrinkle in Time?” Emma asked incredulously.

Killian nodded. “He said he’d never read it because it’s a ‘girl’s book’.”

Emma had to giggle at his eye roll and air quotes.

“I told him he’d miss out on way too many books with that narrow mindset.”

Emma’s brow wrinkled, unsure. “But the movie sucked.”

Killian staggered backwards, his hand to his heart. “Swan please, my heart can’t take it.”

Emma shook her head, laughing fully now. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re melodramatic?”

“Constantly,’ he told her with a wink.

Killian rang up A Wrinkle in Time along with another selection he said Henry had been eyeing last time he was there. It was something from the late 50s called Have Space Suit – Will Travel and had a cover that looked awfully sci-fi theater kitschy to Emma, but she decided to trust Killian’s suggestions. After all, when it came to this fantasy and sci-fi stuff, Emma was completely lost.

Emma paused once again when taking her bag. A new painting was above the cash register, in the same mixed media genre as the previous one. It was still mostly dark and featured a textured bird, yet this time there was a tiny ray of bright colors in the top right corner. The bird’s wings were outstretched this time, one of them bent and crooked. This time the words “Take these broken wings and learn to fly” seemed to stretch towards the light. It took Emma’s breath away. Without tearing her eyes away from it, she spoke to Killian.

“It’s . . . sad, but beautiful.”

“Aye,” he told her softly as he gave her the receipt, “some of the most breathtaking things are a little sad. Wouldn’t you say?”

She looked away from the painting and into his sparkling blue eyes, and she had the strangest feeling they were talking about two different things.

As she took the receipt, her eyes were drawn to his prosthetic and she realized – the bird’s left wing was the one that was broken.

******************************************************

Emma was tucked into a leather wingback chair in the romance section of Magical Mystery Books (something Killian had already teased her about, to which she had retorted that it was either this or force her hips into the bright yellow Curious George chair in the children’s section) answering one last email for work. She could hear Killian and Henry having a heated debate in the YA lit section.

“- but there should be hope after a writer puts you through all that pain!”

“But dystopian lit is about commenting on social ills, is it not? Her whole point was the senselessness of war,” Killian retorted.

Emma shook her head and smiled as she hit send on her email.

“But saving Prim was supposed to be the whole point!”

Emma frowned. Henry had taken the ending of that trilogy way too hard. So hard it had worried her a little. She kicked herself now for letting him read them; he was probably too young.

“And thus the senseless part.” Killian always interacted with Henry with the utmost respect, never talking down to him.

“I still threw that third book against the wall,” she heard Henry mutter.

Killian laughed heartily. “Aye, I confess I did too. And not just over Prim.”

“Finn?”

“God yes, that pissed me off.”

She heard both of them grumbling in agreement at Suzanne Collin’s plot choices, and a huge smile broke out on her face. She pushed herself off the chair and headed towards them. Henry was perched on a stool, a notebook in his lap as he scribbled with a pencil. Killian was next to him shelving books from a cart.

“Hey, Mom! This book report on Mockingjay is going to be so good thanks to Killian.” Henry shot him a glance. “Even though we sort of disagree a little.”

“On the contrary,” Killian countered, ruffling her son’s hair. If it made her ovaries quiver, that was only because she’d been a single mom for ten years. Ten long years. “I happen to agree wholeheartedly. I was just trying to help you see another point of view.”

“Ready kid?” Emma asked as her son stuffed his notebook into his backpack.

“Yeah, Mom.”

Emma frowned as she watched Killian make his way behind the counter. “I’m sorry we just came here to bug you for homework help. We didn’t even buy anything.”

Killian leaned his arms on the counter, and Emma couldn’t take her eyes off how his muscles filled out his button-down shirt. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing the dark hair on his arms as well as where his left arm met his prosthetic hand. Emma wondered if it ever made him self-conscious. She hoped it didn’t, at least not around them.

“Anything for my best customers,” he told them, winking at Emma.

Her eyes flickered nervously away from his, and that was when she saw the newest painting. “All your life you were merely waiting for this moment to be free” it said this time. The work, part painting and part collage, was still dark like the other two, but the light in the right corner was bigger. But the most striking part was that the blackbird was no longer alone, there was now a white bird in the painting as well, and the collage work on it was breathtaking, as if it really had feathers.

“It’s a swan.”

Emma’s gaze swung to meet Killian’s. His eyes were searching her face intently, and suddenly the breath left her lungs. Without another word, she grabbed Henry by the arm and hurried them both from the bookstore.

*******************************************************

Emma hadn’t realized how often they had been going to the bookstore until she suddenly could no longer face its owner. Three weeks had passed, and Henry was now almost daily asking to go to Magical Mystery Books the second she picked him up from school. And every single time, she gave him a flimsy excuse not to.

“What did Killian do?” Henry finally demanded.

“What in the world are you talking about kid?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Please, Mom. That has to be it. Did he try to kiss you or something?”

Emma almost collided with the car in front of her. “Why the hell would you ask that?”

Henry shrugged. “Because he likes you.”

Emma had no idea what to say as she gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“I wouldn’t mind you know,” Henry finally said. “If you dated him, I mean.”

Emma blinked in shock at her son.

“When did you get so smart?”

He grinned in a way that he definitely picked up from Killian. “When I started hanging out at a bookstore.”

*************************************************

Emma marched into Magical Mystery Books the next morning and headed right to the front counter. Killian was there doing something at the register, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw her. Whether that was because he hadn’t seen her in over three weeks or because she looked like a woman on some kind of mission, she wasn’t sure.

She crossed her arms over her chest as she scrutinized the painting over his shoulder. The dark background in this one was now littered with stars, the blackbird swooping down through them, straining towards a white swan that floated on a pond with a glittering reflection of the stars upon their surface. Her (she assumed it was a female swan, anyway) neck was bent away from the blackbird. “Into the light of the cold dark night” it said.

“Did you paint those?”

She saw Killian’s adam’s apple bob as if he wasn’t sure if she was asking or beginning an interrogation, but he lifted his gaze to meet hers anyway.

“Aye.”

She nodded. “Okay then.”

He yelped when she yanked him over the counter towards her, and his eyes were still opened when she crashed her lips into his. Soon, however, he was kissing her back, his hand threading her hair, his tongue seeking entrance. She gave it to him, her own hands releasing his shirt front to find their way into his hair. It was hungry and frantic, with teeth clashing and lips bruising. She started to pull back, only to dive in for more again. She was half tempted to scramble over the counter, his kiss so intoxicating it made her want every part of him. Finally, they were both panting, foreheads pressed together.

“That - “ he gasped.

“Would have been a lot better without this stupid counter between us.”

He laughed as he traced her jaw, but then his blue eyes went a shade darker with lust. “Then get over here,” he growled.

In his next painting, the blackbird was floating in the water, the swan’s neck bent over his.

Blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night.

[ao3feed-captainswan]

Blackbird

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2TqOphS

by searchingwardrobes

Magical Mystery Books is your stereotypical quirky bookstore. Killian Jones, however, is not your typical quirky bookstore owner. Neither are the dark yet beautiful pieces of art that hang over the cash register.

Words: 2508, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 8 of Fandom Birthday Playlist

Fandoms: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Emma Swan, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time), Belle (Once Upon a Time)

Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, single mom emma, Killian as a bookstore owner, Killian as an artist, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Fluff, Song Lyrics, References to the Beatles

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2TqOphS

[hencethebravery]

That sweet, sweet Captain Charming content.

In light of the ongoing #ouat fandom crescendo, I thought it would be an appropriate time to finally compile all of my CC garbage in one place. To troll through various CC content on my blog (produced by myself and others), u can track #cc: saved my life.

✖︎ F I C ✖︎

“Untitled,” Post 6x12 (3.13.17): I’m trying to come to terms with the new episode. It was a lot for me, clearly. I never in a million years would have thought that I’d write a piece from David’s perspective, but alas. 

“Beloved” (3.20.17): David Nolan is in love with Killian Jones. He just doesn’t know what that means.

“Untitled” (5.5.17): Colin O’Donoghue spoke out loud in front of people about kissing Josh Dallas because he’s got nice lips. I literally can’t get over it, so here’s an AU about sneaking into someone’s house so you can kiss them on the mouth without inciting unnecessary drama.

“Alive” (6.27.17): Killian Jones kisses David Nolan for the first time in late spring. It is now summer, and he’s not quite sure how to pencil in the second.

“Untitled” (7.21.17): Colin and Josh know how to blush. They’re all sharp edges and manliness and then it’s just like, ok but they’re strawberries, idek what this is. I mean I kind of do, but it’s also high-key ridiculous.

“Untitled,” FR (7.22.17): Sent by Anonymous, “barista Killian and vintage bookstore owner David“

“Untitled,” FR (8.12.17): Sent by @phiralovesloki, “College AU where David’s never even been kissed, and one night he tells best bud Killian while they’ve been drinking, and Killian’s like, let’s fix that then.”

“Untitled” (8.20.17): In commemoration of the truly astounding display of public regard for CC thanks to Colin, who is legit an angel (dated 8/19/2017). Not to mention the fact that @mahstatins is a truly amazing mom who is truly v tired and could use some solid flirting. This is established relationship CC. I’m sick of getting them established. They are already together, ok? Modern AU time. TOPICAL modern AU time.

“Untitled” (9.1.17): Because I haven’t written anything in days, and I am quite stuck, and I just wanted to write something, so it’s CC which means it’ll get lots of secret hits (I see y’all), but at the very least I’ll have written something. Fair warning, this fic involves someone with a slight hearing disability and I am not deaf, so if I’ve gotten something wrong, please tell me! Trigger warning for vague descriptions of violence, minor character death, and PTSD.

“Beating Hearts” (9.6.17): He assumes he’ll tell him before he leaves for active duty. That’d make sense, right? Only his tongue kinda gets caught in the back of his throat and all he can offer is a platonic pat on the back. David Nolan falls in love with his best friend. It is a mistake. CC AU.

“Untitled” (11.27.17): CC about to boldly go where it has never gone before. And yes, I shamelessly stole a few things from Stranger Things, don’t make a big deal about it. I also know v little about the adoption process, and this is supposed to be a quick thing, so I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. I know it can be a harrowing process and I applaud those people who make this kind of decision. xo

“Untitled” (1.5.18): Did y’all know that Josh Dallas posted a picture of his nice beard on Instagram? And did u also know that he makes Hook-themed crafts? And he is “the ship?” Captain Charming is flawless. Here’s a winter snippet about beards and warm drinks.

“Hated Day” (2.1.18): Sometimes, there’s nothing left to do but give up and call it what it is: a tragedy. He was left living one half of this tragic, mutually agreed upon life while the other half, presumably, felt nothing at all. How dare you, he thought, bitterly, how dare you feel nothing at all. [A Captain Charming “Modern Tragedy” AU]

“Untitled” (3.19.18): “My roommate just told me to stop growing my beard because if I get anymore handsome, he’s gonna have to fuck me, but what he doesn’t know is that I want that.” Captain Charming “omg they were roommates” AU. (x)

✖︎ E D I T S ✖︎

“Anger is a bitter lock. / but you can turn it.” (3.13.17)

“‘Snow and Dirty Rain,’ a Captain Charming Nemesis AU” (3.28.17) 

NOTE: This should’ve been written. idk what happened. @pritkins-little-witch, I’m blaming u for this.

“Did y’all know that Captain Charming saved my life?” (6.5.17)

“Captain Charming + High School AU” (6.14.17)

NOTE: This comes with a v small drabble. Also planning to expand as a gift for @eurydicewouldfollow.

“CC + Coffee Shop AU” (6.27.17)

NOTE: Also comes with a small drabble.

“CC + Summer” (7.21.17)

“CC + Fandom” (8.7.17)

“Hush, my sweet. These tornadoes are for you.” (1.17.18)

✖︎ P L A Y L I S T S ✖︎

“CC + College AU” (7.26.17)

NOTE: Posted with an edit and small drabble.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Just getting my creative juices flowing as I work on Future WIP ideas. Apologizes to anyone who has already done these movies, just putting all my thoughts in one place :)

Movie AU #1: The Sure Thing

Movie AU #2: Reality Bites

Movie AU #3: You’ve Got Mail

Movie AU #4: The Breakfast Club

Movie AU # 5: When Harry Met Sally

Movie AU #6: Top Gun

Movie AU #7: Romancing the Stone

Movie AU #8: The Truth about Cats and Dogs

Movie AU #9: Notting Hill

Killian Jones is a London bookstore owner whose humdrum existence is thrown into romantic turmoil when famous American actress Emma Swan appears in his shop. A chance encounter over spilled orange juice leads to a kiss that blossoms into a full-blown affair. As the average bloke and glamorous movie star draw closer and closer together, they struggle to reconcile their radically different lifestyles in the name of love.

[onceuponaprincessworld]

CaptainSwan One-Shots Recs p.14

Hello CS Fandom! I give you a new One shot list. A lot of them are new but there are some old ones in here as well, but there are all just so wonderful. Hope you enjoy. And if you have any theme idea for a list let me know.

If you are intrested you can find my other lists here.

Cat-astrophe, @pirateherokillian

‘dating best friend’s sister’

Le Cirque Noir, @the-captains-ayebrows

Running away to join the circus is like - the biggest cliche ever, but it’s the only available solution to Emma Swan’s very immediate problem. Running from the cops and with a freshly broken heart, Emma just needs shelter, a job and a ride out of town. She never expected to stumble into a world of real magic complete with witches, werewolves and a trio of shape-shifting brothers. Beast-taming isn’t so hard when the “beasts” are really humans in disguise. Taming were-panther Killian Jones might just be another matter all together. But maybe a lost girl can find a home among the “circus freaks”.

Ballet (Mis)Steps, @hollyethecurious

CS Modern AU: Killian Jones is a retired ballet dancer turned choreographer. Emma Swan is a retired ballet dancer turned journalist. What happens when he comes out of retirement and she is tasked with getting the coveted interview - twelve years after they parted ways...

New Year, New Me, @xemmaloveskillianx

I made a New Year’s resolution to be better at showing the people I love how much I care… But now all I want to do is kiss you.”

Apparitions, @justanotherwannabeclassic

Gifted with the ability to see ghosts, Emma Swan considers this more of a curse than a blessing. When a pair of ghosts named Milah and Liam request her help in befriending a loved one, Emma is introduced to a heartbroken Killian Jones. Easy enough, right? But somewhere along the way, Emma begins to see Killian as more than a friend, and must wrestle with realities of dating while hiding her secret while also helping his loved ones move on.

Concussion Protocol, @welllpthisishappening​

She doesn’t see it at first. And, somehow, that’s even worse. Because the replay is in slow motion and they keep showing it and Roland won’t stop yelling and Henry won’t stop cursing and Emma’s going to do damage to her thumb if she keeps slamming it against her phone.

He doesn’t play the entire third period.

And Emma keeps tugging on her ring. Ruth keeps staring.

The Jolly Reader, @belovedcreation  

One quiet morning on the lake, Emma meets the owner of a floating bookstore and she learns to appreciate the silence of books and days far from the city.

something extraordinary, athena3062

CS AU. Emma never liked romantic comedies, especially the ones where two people inexplicably fall back in touch after years apart. When wine, instagram and her ability to memorize phone numbers collide, her life takes a turn in that direction.

Prompt, @nowforruin

A cs proposal.

And I'm Home, @1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob

"I believe that it's easier for you to let me go. You put your arms around me and I'm home." Emma Swan has never been good with feelings. When she inadvertently befriends Killian Jones, her emotions seem to go into a tailspin. Through a series of snapshots into their relationship through the years, Emma and Killian search for what it means to be home.

Pirate Tech, @mayquita

After several years living in Storybrooke, Killian has adapted quite well to the modern world, becoming an expert in the use of technology. When Snow and David return from a camping weekend, Emma and Killian decide to emulate Emma’s parents and a challenge arises between them to see if they are able to spend an entire weekend without electricity. Canon compliant/future.

Prompt, @initiala

Maybe Killian and Emma sometimes have "competitions" in bed, like betting who can be the last one to come or who can get off quicker?

Dedicated to You, @nothandlingit

I am an author and you are at my booksigning but why are you handing me these scrap papers to sign? Wait - is that the first story I ever wrote and trashed because some people at high school made fun of me by reading it out loud? And now you're here, not to tease me, but because you liked my writing even back then? Captain Swan AU

the process of peer review, @emmaswanchoosesyou

Best friends. Colleagues. That's what anthropology and archaeology professors Emma and Killian have been to each other for years, but sometimes old definitions and practices need to be revisited.

The Fox and the Hound, @awkwardnessandbaseball

Years ago, Killian Jones left his youthful days of illicit romance and causing trouble behind him in favor of walking dogs for a living in Storybrooke. He’s been working for the same families for years, so discovering David Nolan’s beautiful yet closed off sister behind their apartment door is a surprise. It's not long before Killian finds himself coming down with a case of puppy love, but Emma might just send him home with his tail between his legs.

All Things Considered, @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt

When word of Robert Siegel's departure from NPR's "All Things Considered" goes public, Emma gets the chance to compete for her dream job. All that stands in her way are nine fellow journalists - one of them being the charismatic yet cocky Killian Jones. When she ends up paired with Killian on the first story, things get more complicated as she tries to balance fighting for her long-time aspiration and her budding relationship with this fascinating fellow reporter.

Of Pirates and Princesses, @i-am-miapotter

Enchanted Forest AU. Queen Snow always told her daughter that, if given a choice between the Evil Queen and a pirate, go to the pirate, that way she could at least have a chance to return home. Princess Emma, after being kidnapped, has to make such a choice. At the time, she hadn’t realize that it could have such a huge affect on her life.

the reprise, @arexnna

“i run the night slot on campus radio and some jackass keeps calling in to insult my music taste and request high school musical songs instead” au

Muddle Through Somehow, @msgenevieve447

She always knew Henry would leave home one day. She just didn't think he'd leave home for another realm, okay? (Starring Emma Swan and Killian Jones, featuring cameos by Henry, Snow and Charming, mention of Regina and others.) Captain Swan Christmas Fic, set during 702 - ignores S7 timelines (or lack thereof).

kiss me (on this cold december night), @jennifer-morrison​

Maybe asking your best friend to pretend to be your boyfriend as you make a trip back home isn’t the smartest idea Emma’s had in a while. then again, how smart is Killian for actually saying yes?

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: A Day in the Life, Part 2 (Chapter 15)

For @thisonesatellite​​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​​, and I hope you are not too drunk (and) or jet lagged to enjoy it ❤️❤️❤️

In which efforts to break the curse continue. Henry has an important meeting and reunites some old friends, Captain Book begins, and we learn more about the subtle knife. 

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might  help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

-

A Day in the Life, Part Two:

Henry’s third stop on his busy Saturday was the pawn shop. It was just as he remembered it, or at least as much as anything in this Bizarro World version of Storybrooke could be as he remembered. The sign above the door still read ‘Mr Gold’, and inside the shop itself was still cluttered with wondrous and mysterious things. It had been dusty and dank and somewhat grim when Henry first returned to it three weeks earlier but now was much cleaner and better organised, brighter, and welcoming in a way that it certainly had never been before. 

The front door was unlocked and Henry went right in. “Hi Mr Cassidy!” he called out as he closed it behind him. 

“Hey, Henry,” came his father’s voice from the back. “Be right there.” 

“Okay!” Henry looked around as he waited, peering curiously into the display cases and trying not to think too hard about where everything in them had come from. Despite all the improvements, the fact that the pawn shop was stocked with stolen things was still pretty creepy in his opinion. He hoped that after the curse broke Neal would give them back to their rightful owners and not hoard them for his own gain the way Mr Gold had. 

Henry hoped for a lot of things from Neal after the curse broke.

It worried him a bit, if he was honest, wondering what was going to happen to them—to all of them, really—after the curse. He and Neal had spent so little actual time together that Henry wasn’t sure how much of his image of his father was real and how much was wishful thinking. Killian had told him loads of stories of “Bae” as a boy, and Emma, once they got their memories back in New York, had finally told him the truth about the watches and giving birth to him in jail. But they seemed like such different people, Killian’s Bae and Emma’s Neal, and both were so different from Henry’s impressions of the man he’d met that he felt more confused than ever. At this point he wasn’t even quite sure what he wanted from the man or even what kind of man he hoped Neal would turn out to be. He only knew that he couldn’t turn his back on his own father, not even when that father had abandoned his mother and by extension him. 

(“That’s not entirely fair, lad,” Killian had said a few weeks earlier when they were having lunch together, just the two of them. “He didn’t know you existed. Perhaps if he had, he’d have made a different choice.” 

“Maybe,” Henry replied. “But he still left my mom in jail.” 

“Aye,” Killian agreed. “So he did, and I also find that difficult to forgive. I’m certain he regrets it, though.” 

Henry thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it matters that he regrets it,” he said. “Not if he doesn’t admit it was wrong and try to make up for it. Mom says he never even told her he was sorry.” He looked up at Killian. “Do you think he ever will?” 

Killian took his time answering. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know if he will ever understand just how deeply he hurt your mother. Truthfully, I feel I know the man far less than I did the boy. I’d like to believe that Bae is still in there somewhere, but Neal unfortunately seems to be a bit too much like his father.”

“Yeah,” said Henry. “But even Rumplestiltskin did the right thing in the end. He sacrificed himself to save us from Pan. Maybe my father will do the right thing too.” 

“Who’s to say but that he will,” replied Killian. 

Henry thought a bit more, then said firmly, “I’m gonna give him the chance to try.” 

Killian smiled at him, the proud smile that always made Henry feel warm inside. “I think that’s the right decision,” he said. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”)

The curtain separating the front of the shop from the back shifted, and Neal appeared. He smiled at Henry. “Hey, kid, what’s up?” 

“Nothing special. I was just wondering how things are going here?” 

“Good, yeah, good.” Neal smile turned a bit awkward and he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a learning curve, not gonna lie. But I’m getting the hang of it. Think I’ll be able to open next week.” 

“That’s great!” 

“Yeah. Hope so. Your dad’s been a lot of help, showing me the ropes of how to run a business. Tell him thanks from me, will you?” 

“Sure. Or you could come to dinner with us tonight and do it yourself.” 

“Dinner? What, like, at your house?” 

“Yep! My dad said it was okay if I asked you. He’s making burgers and he always makes too many, and we just thought you might like some company.” 

“Oh.” Neal blinked in confusion, a look Henry had come to realise meant he was thinking about something that would never have occurred to his cursed self on its own. “Um… sure, okay. Thanks.” 

“Cool! It’s above the bookstore. You know where that is, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So just ring the bell and we’ll come downstairs to get you. About seven?” 

Neal grinned. “I’ll be there. Thanks, Henry.” He shook his head and his grin shifted into an odd little smile, wistful and slightly sad. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Henry. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking. About how much has changed these last few weeks.” He leaned back against the register, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, it’s weird, right, the way those old records just showed up one day in the mayor’s office?”

“Yeah. Very weird.” Henry struggled to keep his face blank.

“I didn’t even know my father owned a pawn shop.” Neal frowned. “I don’t remember much about my father, actually.”  

“That’s probably why you didn’t know,” said Henry. 

“Yeah, probably. Anyway, it’s changed my life, you know. I never wanted to be a janitor, but—” he shrugged “—there wasn’t really anything else I could do. Now I can do this. Some kind of luck, huh?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Henry. “Luck.” And his mom’s magical forgery skills that were second to none. “I’m really glad, Mr Cassidy. I hope you’ll like working here.” 

“Yeah, thanks. I really think I will,” said Neal.

~

“You came to inquire about the subtle knife.” Oisín smiled, leaning back in his chair. “May I see it?” 

Emma huffed in annoyance, reminding herself that he was their best chance to find answers despite his supercilious nature and the supremely irritating way he always knew about things before they happened. She opened Killian’s satchel and took the knife from it.   

Oisín’s face was calm as she carefully removed the knife from the plastic evidence bag where she had kept it wrapped since she’d taken it from the loft, but there was a glint in his eyes that Emma recognised, having seen it in Killian’s on more than one occasion. It was the look of a man about to get his hands on a treasure he never imagined he’d have the chance to touch. She held the knife out to him and he took it almost reverently. 

“It’s extraordinary,” he breathed, letting his fingertips trail along the blade, and Emma couldn’t suppress an eye roll. What was it with men and weapons, she thought. Even the supposedly wise immortal ones were hard for them. 

“What can you tell me about it?” she asked. 

The look he gave her was nearly as sharp as the knife itself. “What do you already know?” 

“Not much. There’s mention of it in a book Henry found, but that was the only reference any of us could uncover. The book said that it was the sharpest blade in existence, and could cut through the fabric of reality, whatever that means.” 

“That is correct,” said Oisín. “The blade of Æsahættr is two-sided, as you can see.” He held the knife up to the the shop’s dusty window, catching the faint light with its two-toned blade. “It was forged of two different metals. This side—” he indicated the shiny edge “—can cut through any substance in any realm, while this one... can cut through the barriers between the realms themselves.” 

“So you’re saying that someone could use this knife to—to cut a portal between two realms?” asked Regina.

“Indeed.” 

Regina and Emma exchanged a look. “So that’s how she did it.” Regina sounded almost awestruck. “That’s how she made the portals.” She shook her head. “That’s—well, it’s terrifying magic.” 

“Terrifying indeed,” said Oisín. “And also extraordinarily dangerous. The energy that divides the realms is dangerously unstable, as well as being very powerful and difficult to breach. Cutting permanent portals into it brings vastly unpleasant consequences. I’d advise you not to attempt it, if there is any other method of realm travel at your disposal.” 

“We don’t need realm travel,” said Emma, just as Regina exclaimed “Permanent portals?”

“Yes, permanent,” Oisín replied. “It is possible to close them but doing so requires a delicacy of touch and a close relationship with the subtle knife, neither of which I believe your sister is capable.”

“That’s probably true,” said Regina, just as Emma exclaimed “A relationship with the knife?”

“Oh yes,” said Oisín, returning his attention to Emma, mirth twinkling in his emerald eyes. “The subtle knife always has a bearer, and though I cannot See who that bearer is, I am certain it is not Zelena.”

“She probably stole it,” said Regina. 

“That seems likely to be the case. And also likely that she forced the bearer to cut the portals.” 

Emma was frowning hard. “So how would someone go about becoming a—a bearer of this knife?” she asked. 

Oisín smiled, the smile of a man who has lived long and seen much, most of it unpleasant. “In the time-honoured way of passing a magical weapon from one hand to another,” he said. “By killing the previous bearer.” 

“Hmmm.” Emma’s frown deepened. “And is there any way of identifying the bearer?” 

“Perhaps, though it is difficult to be certain. The lore of Æsahættr is vague at best; in most realms it is entirely unknown and in others spoken of only in hushed whispers. Even I had believed it a myth, until I perceived its presence in this land. All I can tell you is that in some of the whispers there is mention of the bearer suffering injury to his left hand in the process of obtaining the knife. The loss of fingers, I believe.”

“Hmmm,” said Emma again. “Okay. Just one more question. You said that this side—” she pointed at the shiny edge”—can cut through any substance in any realm?” 

“Yes.” 

“What about magic?” 

“Oisín’s eyes glinted again. “In theory, yes. But I rather suspect you knew this already.”

Emma nodded, slowly. “I saw it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I wasn’t sure I could believe what I saw. I was fighting Zelena, I had her trapped within a containment spell… and Henry just—he just—cut the spell open. He sliced right through my magic.” 

Regina drew in her breath sharply. “He did?” 

“Yes didn’t you—oh, I suppose you couldn’t see the light magic?” 

“Not as clearly as you, no. But could Henry?”

“I imagine that young Henry perceived the magic more than strictly saw it,” remarked Oisín. “Perception, not sight, is what guides the subtle knife; the barriers between worlds are invisible to all eyes. That which one can perceive, however, one can cut.” 

~

Henry’s fourth stop of the day was Granny’s, just in time for lunch. The diner was busy as always, bustling with people and noise, and when the crowd parted and Henry caught a glimpse of his grandparents tucked away in a corner booth staring at each other with the same dopey looks on their faces that he saw all the time on his mom and dad, he couldn’t hold back a gleeful grin. 

“Hey, Archie,” he said, sliding onto a stool next to the erstwhile psychiatrist, who looked tired and hopeless and and very wrong dressed as a miner, with grime beneath his fingernails and settled deeply into the lines on his face. His wire-rimmed glasses had been replaced by safety goggles and his hair looked thinner. Nevertheless he greeted Henry with a warm smile. 

“Hello, Henry,” he said. “How are you?” 

“Good! Can I ask you something? 

“Of course.” 

“Have you ever considered getting a dog?” 

When Henry first began his quest to return love to the people of Storybrooke he had opted for little suggestions, gentle hints designed to nudge them in the right direction. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that with this curse subtlety was futile, and that they responded to nothing but what his dad called “sledgehammer tactics.” Hey, Belle, have this book. Here, Neal, take this pawnshop. So, Archie, how’d you like a dog? The direct approach was the only one that worked. 

“A dog?” Archie replied. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Really? Because I think you’d be great as a dog dad.” 

“A dog dad…” Archie’s voice trailed off and a dreamy look settled in his eyes. “I’ve never thought of getting a dog.” He frowned in confusion. “That is, I don’t think I have. But actually… yes. A dog. Yes. That might be just the thing.” 

“Uh huh,” said Henry, who was keen to waste no time. “I saw one today I think you would love. A Dalmatian.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep. At the animal shelter. He just got there today.”

“A Dalmatian,” said Archie. “That’s the black and white spotted ones, right?” 

“Yep. I petted him, he’s really friendly. And he really needs a home.” 

Archie looked uncertain. “I don’t know if I could take care of a dog, Henry. I work long hours, you know.”

Yeah but you won’t for much longer, Henry thought. Not if I have anything to say about it.

“Just go meet him,” he wheedled. “I’ll come with you if you like.” 

Archie warred with himself for another moment then nodded. “All right. I’ll meet him.” 

~

It was barely a quarter past two when Belle arrived at the bookshop. Killian was busy helping customers and didn’t see her right away. It still surprised him how much business the shop drew in, considering the place only existed to give him a respectable and non-suspicion-raising occupation and a reason to move to Storybrooke, and also as a means of getting books of magic to a place where Emma could have access to them, both to help her rediscover her own magic and to give them all the information they would need to take on Zelena. It had certainly fulfilled all those roles, admirably, but now that the curse was near to breaking Killian had begun to think ahead. He would need something to occupy his days, and what with his ship and his crew most likely stranded in Neverland with Blackbeard as their captain, a return to piracy or even a more respectable ship-based occupation was firmly off the table. His only real option was to keep the bookshop.

The more that he thought about it the more appealing the idea grew. He truly loved his little shop, the light and airy space all his own that he had organised and furnished to suit his tastes. He loved his books, the way they smelled and how they looked lined up neatly on his shelves. He loved matching those books to the people who sought them, loved both the pleased looks on his customers’ faces and the satisfaction of closing a sale. He loved the mental exercise of keeping his accounts and tracking his inventory, of looking through catalogs and choosing new books to purchase. Books that of course he would need to read himself in order to make recommendations to his customers. That prospect in particular he loved. Killian still found this realm frustrating and baffling in many ways but one thing that could be chalked up firmly in its favour was that it possessed a true wealth of reading material. He calculated he would need to live at least another three hundred years just to get through it all.

He began to think about expansion, about new genres he could introduce, popular titles that would attract new customers. Soon plans and ideas that started small had grown and grown until they were lodged firmly in his mind, refusing to be ignored or brushed aside. He wanted to do this, he realised, wanted it quite intensely, and for the first time in his very long life he had the luxury of choosing to do precisely what he wanted. Which was a surprisingly terrifying prospect but also a very welcome one. 

Killian completed his sale then turned to greet the new customer with a smile that froze on his face when he recognised Belle. Though Henry had texted him to expect her visit he instinctively braced himself for her anger, her disgust, before he recalled that she was cursed and didn’t remember him. 

“Hello,” he said, forcing himself to relax. “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

“Are you Killian Jones?” 

“Aye.” 

“My—my name is Belle. Belle French. I, uh, know your son.” 

“Ah, yes. I believe he mentioned you. He recommended a book to you?” 

“Yes.” Belle’s face lit up. “A wonderful one. And he said, um, that you might be looking for an assistant? Here?”

Bloody Henry, thought Killian, with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. You drop one mention that you’re thinking of expanding and he runs with it. Still, he couldn’t deny that the quickest way to nurture Belle’s love of books would be to surround her with them. The lad was undeniably clever. 

“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “Are you interested in the job?” 

“Y—” Belle took a deep breath. “Yes. I am.” 

“Well, why don’t you sit down and we’ll have a chat about it,” said Killian, gesturing to the sofa at the back of the shop. “Would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea?” 

“Tea would be lovely.” 

What the hell, thought Killian, as he went to make the tea, why not? When the curse broke she would doubtless be angry and scared of him again—and who could blame her?—but then he knew he’d be dealing with rather a lot of that once Storybrooke regained its memories. He might as well take what steps he could towards demonstrating how he had changed and hope that would be enough to convince people to give him a second chance. 

~

“Perception,” echoed Emma. “Right. Okay. I think that’s all we needed to ask.” She turned to Regina. “Unless you have any other questions?” 

“No.” Regina shook her head. “This has been very informative.” 

Emma held out her hand for the knife and Oisín, after one last long look and a subtle caress, relinquished it. Carefully, Emma replaced it in the reinforced evidence bag and tucked it back into the satchel. She leaned the satchel against the leg of her chair and turned back to Oisín with an expression both resigned and expectant. 

“What?” he asked. 

“We’ve learned what I came here to learn,” she replied. “So we’ll be going now. We need to get back to Storybrooke before it gets too late.” 

“Indeed. It was lovely seeing you, even for a short time.” 

Emma frowned. “Is that it?” 

“Were you expecting more?”

“Well, I mean, aren’t you going to give me some cryptically wise parting words?” asked Emma. “You usually do.” 

“Not today,” said Oisín, amusement dancing in his eyes again. “I believe you know everything you need, and also that you understand the import of what you know.” 

“Well that makes a change.” 

He laughed, a light, musical sound that rang out far more loudly than it ought to in the small space of the shop. “You know, Emma, I’m very proud of you,” he said. “You were hardly the easiest pupil I have ever taught, but you are by far the most accomplished. And I don’t just mean your power, that you were born with. I mean your attitude and your approach to your magic. How you have let go of your fear and resentment of it. How you’ve embraced it. I believe that had you not, even Hook’s most determined efforts to restore it to you could not have been successful.” 

Emma flushed, still not wholly comfortable with praise, and gave a little shrug. “It’s all down to him anyway,” she said. “He always says that magic is a part of me and that he—” she grew pinker and glanced at Regina out of the corner of her eye “—he loves every part of me.” 

Regina did not sneer. Instead she flushed slightly herself and smiled a small smile, as if remembering. 

Oisín nodded in satisfaction. “It’s as I hoped then.” He leaned back in his chair again, his expression soft and almost wistful. “I used to weep at the waste of that man,” he said. “You must never tell him that I told you this. I wept in mourning for the loss of what he could have been, for the good man so deeply buried beneath anger and vengeance that I feared he would never be seen in more than glimpses. That he would destroy himself without ever knowing who he truly was, or could be. Until you, Emma, gave him a reason to know it. You saved him.” 

“He saved me too,” said Emma, thinking of how closed off she had been before she met Killian. How lonely. How lost. “We saved each other.”

“Yes,” Oisín agreed. “That was the first part of your story. A part I believe is now approaching its end. There are far more parts to come. Enjoy them all, together.” 

He stood and waited as Emma and Regina followed suit, then held out his hand. When Emma took it as if to shake, he grasped hers between both of his and held it tightly. 

“What will you do now?” Emma asked him. “I—I don’t think Killian and I will be coming back here. Once we break the curse... well, all my family is in Storybrooke and he really loves that bookstore. I’m pretty sure we’ll be staying there. Are you going to stay here?” 

“No,” Oisín replied, “I’m no longer needed in this place. I shall return to my home, and my Niamh. But you know how to find me, should you ever have need of me again. Or simply wish to say hello.” 

“We might actually do that,” said Emma, smiling. “Thank you.” 

Oisín returned the smile, squeezing Emma’s hand. “It’s been an honour, Emma Swan, now Jones,” he said. “Give my regards to your husband and son. And to the rest of your family—” his eyes flitted to her belly, so briefly she nearly missed it. “—when they arrive.” 

~

Belle left the bookstore an hour later with a new job and a bag full of books, most from Killian’s own personal collection. 

“I’m working on diversifying the inventory,” he’d explained. “And your input on the best ways to do that would be greatly appreciated. At the moment we don’t stock very much light, entertaining reading material. However I believe I have one or two things of my own you would enjoy.” He piled book after book into one of the cloth bags printed with the Jolly Roger Books logo and handed it to Belle with a grin. “I look forward to hearing what you think of them.” 

She felt happier than she could remember feeling, all but dancing along the sidewalk in her eagerness to get home and start reading, absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of quitting her job at the market and going every day to that beautiful shop full of books and light and Killian’s friendly smile and interesting conversation. Even the odd hints of regret that she could see lurking behind his eyes felt relatable, and though she’d only spent an hour in his company she felt almost like he was a friend already. 

Books and a friend, thought Belle, with a flash of insight and a sudden clarity that swept away the apathy and confusion that had clouded her mind for as long as she could remember. She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk as a feeling of revelation washed over her. That’s what had been missing in her life, the cause of the emptiness she constantly felt but never could quite manage to explain. All this time she’d thought something was broken in her, when really she’d just needed books. And a friend.   

~

Henry met Archie outside the animal shelter late that afternoon. Archie smiled his familiar, warm smile but Henry could see he was nervous. 

“Henry, I know I agreed to this but I’m not so sure it’s really—” he began. 

“Just meet the dog,” Henry interrupted. “It won’t hurt to meet him.” 

He pushed open the door and held it, looking back expectantly. “Come on,” he encouraged, and slowly Archie followed.  

“Back again, Henry?” David smiled at them. “Yep! Mr Nolan, this is Archie,” said Henry. “He’s the one I told you about, who might adopt the new dog.” “Might,” emphasised Archie with a nervous smile. 

“No problem,” said David. “We only allow adoptions when we think it’s a good match, for the animal and the human.” Archie nodded, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. “Henry, why don’t you take him back to meet the dog?” David asked. 

Henry had to force himself not to run. He hurried to Pongo’s cage where the dog seemed to be waiting, wagging his tail. “Here he is,” said Henry eagerly. “Isn’t he great?” 

Archie approached the cage slowly, his eyes going wide behind his safety goggles. “He’s—he’s gorgeous,” he whispered.  

“At the sound of Archie’s voice Pongo gave a small bark and his tail picked up speed, moving so fast it was a blur. He poked his nose through the bars of the cage and whined at Archie. 

“Look!” cried Henry. “He likes you already.” 

“Ohhh,” said Archie, moving towards the cage, hand extended. “Hello, boy.” 

Pongo licked his hand, and when Archie knelt down, his face, covering it in sloppy, loving kisses. Archie laughed, his face lit up with joy. 

“Well he certainly seems to have chosen you,” said David’s voice from behind them. 

“He definitely has,” Henry agreed. “You’ve got to adopt him, Archie.” 

“I don’t—I’m not—I can’t—” Archie looked helplessly at Pongo’s pleading eyes and sighed. “I will,” he said. He looked up at David. “If it’s okay—” 

“Of course,” said David. “There’s some paperwork to do, but after seeing you together I’m more than happy to sign off on the adoption. Congratulations.”

Archie nodded, still looking a bit shell-shocked. 

“I’ll go get everything prepared, you come to the front when you’re ready,” said David, He took out a key and unlocked Pongo’s cage. The minute the door opened, the dog leapt on Archie, squirming delightedly. 

“What are you going to name him?” asked Henry. 

“You know, I have no idea,” said Archie. “I never actually expected this to happen. Have you got any suggestions?” 

“How about Pongo?” Henry suggested. 

“Pongo,” Archie repeated, and the dog barked happily. Archie smiled. “Is your name Pongo?” 

“Woof!” said Pongo. 

“Well, that seems definitive.” Archie laughed. “Pongo it is, then.”

He stood, his hand still on Pongo’s head. “Thank you, Henry,” he said. “I had no idea I needed a dog, but I think...” he frowned and shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Somehow, I think he’s just what I was missing.”  

“No problem,” said Henry, mentally ticking another name off his list. “I knew you guys would love each other.”

~

Emma poofed herself and Regina straight from Queens to Killian’s apartment. Transporting the both of them over such a distance and then back again had exhausted a great deal of her magic, and if she went to the station first she doubted she’d have enough left to poof from there to home. And as she and Killian were still cautious about being seen together in public, she didn’t want to walk to his place or drive. It wasn’t worth the risk of anyone observing her going into the bookstore after it was closed, or spotting her bug parked in front of it. 

Henry and Killian were already there when the white smoke swirled up from the ground and they appeared. Emma went straight to her husband, knowing he would be worried about her, and allowed him to run his hands over her and look probingly into her eyes, assuring himself that she was okay in both mind and body. Regina gave a hug to Henry and a nod to Killian, then left to get ready for her date. 

“Regina and Robin Hood,” said Emma, snuggling into Killian’s side and relaxing against him. “I still can’t quite believe it.” 

“It’s so cool,” said Henry. 

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Emma smiled, thinking about the new softness she’d witnessed in Regina that afternoon. “So how was your day, kid?” 

“Good!” Henry’s face lit up. “I did so much! I found Pongo and got Archie to adopt him, and Dad’s gonna give Belle a job, and I invited my father for dinner.” 

“Your fa—Neal? For dinner?” Henry nodded. “What, here?”

“Aye,” said Killian, running his hand soothingly up and down her arm. “It was Henry’s idea but I agreed. We thought it might be nice to include him in a family meal, even if he doesn’t know that’s what it is.” 

“He’s really lonely, Mom,” Henry chimed in. “Everyone in town is, but him especially. I think the love he needs might have to come from us.” 

“But… then why did we give him the pawn shop?” 

“To get the pawn shop open again, mostly,” said Killian. “And to give us an excuse to meet him. But we didn’t really expect him to discover any love there. Remember, Swan, that Bae was abandoned by his mother and ran away from his father. He found a home briefly with the Darling children but that was taken from him, and I’m sad to say that during his time in Neverland he didn’t really become close to any of the Lost Boys. Henry thinks and I agree, that what Neal really needs, what perhaps he’s always needed, is a family.” 

Emma nodded. “I can see that, I guess. But how are you going to explain me being here with you guys? Won’t he think that’s weird?” 

“So we just don’t explain it,” said Henry. “The curse has kept him really isolated. I don’t think he knows you’re supposed to be married to Walsh. He doesn’t seem to know very much about what’s been going on in town, and almost nothing about his father.”

“Huh,” said Emma. “I guess that makes sense. It was the same with Regina. She was really isolated working for my parents.” 

“Aye. Allow people to interact and you risk them forming attachments,” Killian agreed. “I imagine that any kind of genuine connection between people would have threatened the integrity of the curse.” 

“Well, okay,” said Emma. “That sounds like a solid plan, and I’m on board. But I need a serious nap before I deal with Neal or anyone else. I’ve used so much magic today. When’s he supposed to get here?” 

“Not for a few hours yet,” said Killian, kissing her hair. “Go have your nap, love. We’ll be sure to wake you in time.” 

Henry watched as his parents cuddled for a moment then shared a soft kiss, watched his mom head off to their bedroom and watched his dad watching her go. He thought about his grandparents making doey eyes at each other that afternoon at Granny’s, and about Archie and Pongo’s joyful reunion. He thought about his mom so excited about her date with Robin, and about Belle discovering books and his father coming to have dinner with them. He smiled to himself. A day like this one was just about worth getting up early for. 

-

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