#the way Margaret set the whole kiss in motion with the “he's such a child” comment

[inafieldofdaisies]

So Help Me Todd (2022–) | Season 1, Episode 14 "Against All Todds" | Favorite moments, a.k.a. Margaret being a total legend as always

/ The way this show became my happy place, I adore the story and cast to the moon and back. <;3 I'm so freaking happy it has been renewed for a second season.

If you haven't seen SHMT, you're missing out big time.

[alliedbiscuit]

msr fic / s7 post-closure but pre-all things / wc: 3398

Scully takes Maggie out for a birthday dinner, and you'll never guess who they run into.

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

“So, how are feeling about dessert?” the waiter asks hopefully.

Maggie Scully scoffs. “Oh, no. I couldn’t eat another bite. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Decaf, please.”

“Mom, are you sure? You should get dessert,” Dana Scully prods, stopping herself short before she could let it slip, “It’s your birthday!” The last gift her mother would appreciate is a gaggle of underpaid waiters singing some public-domain-compliant version of a birthday song while the whole restaurant turns its attention toward her. Like mother, like daughter.

Well, the daughter made an exception and found that kind of thing charming exactly once. But at least she got a nice keychain out of it. All her mother would get was humiliation and a chocolate lava cake.

As soon as the waiter leaves to fetch their after dinner coffees, Maggie reveals her true intentions.

“I was thinking we could go to that ice cream parlor down the street. If I’m going to indulge, I think I want a hot fudge sundae. Or maybe we could split a banana split?”

“Or you could get a hot fudge sundae and I could get a banana split, and we could split both,” Scully suggests.

“See, that’s why you work for the FBI.”

“Dessert Conflict Resolution was part of my training at Quantico.”

Both Scullys giggle.

“Does Fox have the same specialty? Or is that what you bring to the team?”

“Mulder’s dessert strategy is just to eat everything and then swim a mile and run five the next day. No, he’s a Takeout Menu Marksman, though. He knows where to order from and what to order so it travels the best and doesn’t get cold and congealed by the time it arrives. Might sound like a trivial skill, but it’s a lifesaver on movie night.”

Maggie continues smiling but cocks her head slightly. Dana realizes why almost instantly.

“You have movie night?”

“It’s not a set thing or anything. We just…if we’re not busy with a case.”

“You just watch movies? As coworkers?”

“As friends.”

“Just friends?”

Dana lets out a long sigh as she stares her mother down. Her mother, maintaining that gentle yet challenging grin. Dana considers her response carefully. She could offer a simple yes because that is the fact of the matter. They are just friends. She could criticize the wording choice. “Just” friends? Why does it have to be “just” friends? As if friendship isn’t somehow enough or isn’t valuable?

She could realize it’s her mother’s birthday and she’s the only other Scully woman left to confide in about matters of the heart, and although she doesn’t want to bring up the New Year’s kiss because she still doesn’t really know what it meant, maybe they both need this little gift of honesty, filled with tempered excitement and promise.

“For now,” Dana Scully finally admits.

Maggie’s grin grows as Scully just shakes her head and manages to keep her slight eye roll from reaching embarrassed teenager level. The waiter does bail her out a bit by choosing that moment to deliver their coffees.

“How is Fox doing? After his mother…” Maggie trails off, but her daughter knows not to expect any more specifics.

“Better? I mean, as well as can be expected. The thing is, right after that, he found out some more about his sister. About what happened to her. It was just so much all at once. I was really worried…”

Maggie reaches across the table to lay a hand on hers.

“But, it was almost like he was ready for it. He finally had some answers. Like it brought him some peace.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. He needed that.”

“We all do.”

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

Maggie is the one to spot him first as they’re heading for the door.

“Is that- is that Fox?” she asks her daughter.

“What? No, he wouldn't…” Dana trails off as she looks straight ahead to where her mother was indicating and confirms that it is indeed Fox Mulder, standing with his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained to the floor as he appears to be waiting near the vestibule for the restrooms.

“Mulder?” Scully questions as she approaches, her voice giving away her confusion and growing concern.

His head darts up in surprise, but a beaming smile of recognition quickly overtakes his face.

“Hey, Scully! Mrs. Scully, it’s so nice to see you!”

“You too, Fox,” Maggie kindly replies, although a quick glance to her daughter confirms her suspicion that Dana is still very confused by his presence.

“Did you…did you need something?” She suddenly feels silly for presuming that he must have come there with urgent news or a case or something, but why else would Fox Mulder be at Petrino’s on a Saturday night? Did his informants trade in clandestine meetings in parking garages for family-style Italian?

“Hmm?” Mulder asks.

“You didn’t come here to find me? I told you I was bringing my mom here for her birthday, didn’t I?” He didn’t look like he had rushed to the restaurant from the office or his apartment as she had originally assumed. He had clearly shaved and combed his hair nicely. He wore an olive green sweater with dark blue jeans and a black wool pea coat rather than his leather jacket. He had definitely made an effort.

“You did, but I thought you were going out tomorrow night on her actual birthday. Happy birthday, by the way, Mrs. Scully.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’m going to have lunch with some ladies from church after mass tomorrow, so I asked Dana if we could do Saturday night instead.”

“Ah. What a weird coincidence then. I can’t believe we didn’t see you at all during dinner.”

We.

Oh God.

Mulder was on a date.

Mulder was on a date in this restaurant on the night he thought Scully wasn’t going to be there. Mulder was on a date right after Scully had confessed to her mother (and herself) that their “just friends” status was in the process of changing. Mulder was on a date right after he’d been through so much pain but seemed to come out lighter and more open and he wanted to share it with someone…who wasn’t Dana Scully.

“So, you’ve already eaten then?” Maggie asks since her daughter appears unable to form a coherent statement at the moment.

“Yeah, we just finished. I’m just waiting for her…” he seems to trail off just to motion towards the restroom rather than say anything indelicate, but then he notices Maggie’s poorly masked look of concern toward Dana, and then he notices Dana’s completely unmasked look of shock.

And then he gets it.

“Oh, no! It’s not…I want you to meet her,” Mulder insists as he grabs a hold of both of Scully’s elbows and then glances anxiously toward the restroom door.

Dana Scully looks like she might be ill.

Thankfully Mulder only stammers a moment longer until the restroom door opens and he finds reprieve when a tall, thin woman appearing to be in her mid-60s walks through the door.

“Aunt Helen,” Mulder calls.

Somehow Scully’s eyes manage to get even wider as some of the color returns to her face.

“Aunt Helen, there are a few people I’d really like you to meet. This is my partner, Dana Scully, and this is her mother, Margaret Scully.”

Aunt Helen smiles widely in recognition, first shaking Maggie’s hand and then Dana’s. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

She lingers with her hand holding Dana’s while she says this, and the younger Scully is left blushing. She hazards a look at Mulder, but he doesn’t look embarrassed by this revelation. He holds her gaze with nothing but pride.

“This is my aunt, Helen Briggs. She’s my mom’s sister. She’s visiting for the weekend from Charlotte.”

They all kind of marvel over the fact that they were in the same restaurant and what a coincidence and oh, we were seated near the back bar, that must be why we didn’t see you and Scully is just starting to feel her pulse return to normal as Aunt Helen laments not having a chance to talk with the Scullys.

“Well, Dana and I skipped dessert so we could go to The Big Dipper for some ice cream. Would you two like to join us?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. As long as we’re not intruding,” says Aunt Helen.

“Not at all,” Scully assures her. “There is one catch, though.”

“It’s not real ice cream. It’s that Tofutti nonsense, isn’t it?” Mulder groans.

“It better not be,” Maggie insists. “I don’t know how she eats that stuff.”

Scully ignores her mother and her partner’s bad mouthing of her frozen treats as she returns her attention to Aunt Helen.

“I’m afraid if you want to come along, you will have to reveal a few good Young Mulder stories. And by ‘a few,’ I mean as many as you’ve got. And by ‘good,’ I mean the more embarrassing the better.”

“I’ll start thinking now,” Aunt Helen laughs.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant,” Mulder says regretfully.

***********

They’ve just sat down to a small, round table for four with their ice cream when Mulder stands up to get them all more napkins, and Aunt Helen retrieves a small, rectangular piece of paper from her purse that she then deftly slides to Dana.

“Oh my god!” Scully exclaims with joy.

Staring back at her from the paper is a very young Fox Mulder. She guesses he must be around 8 or 9 in the school photo. His long, sandy brown hair falls just above his eyebrows. He doesn’t have his distinctive nose yet, but his bottom lip is already a little pouty. The real give away is the eyes. He’s grinning for the camera, but his eyes still have that soulfulness, that slight sadness.

She’s surprised. She knows she shouldn’t be. His eyes didn’t suddenly change when Samantha was taken. His eyes were probably always like that.

But she had always assumed that the great tragedy had flipped a switch for Young Fox Mulder. That before that single event, he had certainly been a perfectly happy child. Funny and athletic, popular for sure. But the humor developed as a defense mechanism later in life. And the sports were a great physical release as well as an excuse to be out of the house as much as possible. She didn’t actually know what he was like before, but now that she thought about it, home life was probably never all that great if it eventually led to a father sacrificing one child and leaving the other to always live with the guilt and loss.

It was very possible that Fox Mulder had always been a little boy with a lot on his mind.

In contrast, present day, adult Fox Mulder looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he returns with extra napkins, ready to tuck into his chocolate peanut butter ice cream in a waffle cone – that is until he realizes what his friend and partner Dana Scully is looking at.

“Oh come on. I was gone for thirty seconds, and you have the visual aids out.”

Scully continues to beam as Maggie finally gets a glimpse of the photo in her hand.

“Oh, Fox!”

“Okay,” Mulder said exasperatedly. “Does this meet your embarrassment quota?” he asks, looking pointedly at Scully.

“Not even close! This isn’t embarrassing. It’s adorable!”

Mulder rolls his eyes but can’t hide his bashful grin at her comment.

“It’s only fair, Fox. I know you’ve seen family photos of Dana at my house,” Mrs. Scully says, sounding like a mother well practiced in settling disputes between children.

“Just a couple. I do like that high school graduation picture, though. I still don’t know how you kept your cap on with all that hair.”

“That was the style back then. Everybody teased their hair and used a ton of hairspray.”

“I thought it might be a religious thing at Catholic school. The higher the hair, the closer to God,” Mulder teases.

Maggie and Aunt Helen chuckle, though the latter gives him a good-natured swat on the arm in admonishment.

“See, this is what I need, though. I need something from the teen years. That’s peak embarrassment fodder,” Scully says.

“If you ask our colleagues, I think my peak embarrassment fodder would come from about 1991 to present,” Mulder points out.

Aunt Helen just looks slightly regretful. “I’m afraid I don’t have many stories from those years, Dana.”

Mulder makes eye contact with Aunt Helen. “You didn’t miss much,” he insists. She looks like she wants to debate him, but he just places a hand on hers reassuringly, and they seem to make a silent agreement to not argue the point any further.

Mulder had never really mentioned any other family before. She knew his grandparents had all passed before she met him, but she had assumed, just like with everything else, that any other extended family connections had disappeared along with Samantha. That no one would know how to comfort and console The Mulders in a situation like that, with no explanation.

His aunts and uncles must have had questions, probably even had their own theories. Did his mother’s side suspect his father’s involvement, or did his father’s side blame his mother somehow? Did any of them blame…no, she couldn’t go down that route. Besides, did anyone ever suspect horrific things like that before the days of cable news and supermarket tabloids?

The point is, it was a tense situation, so Scully assumed they had all done what wealthy white people in places like Martha’s Vineyard and Boston and Raleigh did with any uncomfortable subject – they avoided it completely.

And that meant avoiding the little boy with a lot on his mind as he became a teenager with even more on his mind.

Scully had accompanied Mulder to a small burial service for his mother in Raleigh a few months ago. It was just the service. No gathering or dinner after, or at least not one that Mulder told her about. The attendees at the service were all pretty spread out, not much mingling. Again, it was another sudden loss shrouded in mystery. They all avoided particulars as much as they could.

Scully didn’t remember seeing Aunt Helen that day, but maybe she was there and just couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Maybe she wasn’t there because she couldn’t bring herself to go and then regretted it. Dana Scully didn’t know, and it didn’t actually matter. The point is that she’s here now. And that’s exactly what Mulder’s look of reassurance and acceptance seems to say.

It seems to help her perk up because she offers playfully, “Oh, what about that summer on Quonochontaug? I think you were 9 or so, and you were collecting leaves for one of your Indian Guide badges.”

“Oh god!”

“I’m hooked already. Not to jump ahead, but please tell me there’s poison ivy involved,” Scully says gleefully.

Aunt Helen’s bark of laughter and Mulder’s exaggerated eye roll are all the confirmation she needs.

“It was heavily involved! But that’s not the worst part. While he was working on his Leaf Collecting badge, he also earned credit towards his Wildlife badge when he came across a skunk in the woods.”

“No!” Scully shouts.

“Ivyed and skunked at the same time,” Mulder admits.

“Oh you poor thing,” Maggie adds sympathetically, but with barely contained laughter.

“He had to jump right from a tomato juice bath for the skunk smell…”

“Which didn’t work!”

“…into an oatmeal bath for the itching.”

“Which worked better, but I still smelled like a Grateful Dead concert.”

Both Scullys are full on giggling at this point.

“Do you remember what Grandpa Ralph said when he walked in and saw you and mom dunking me in a tub of oatmeal?” Mulder asks.

Aunt Helen pitches her voice deeper and amps up her Southern twang, “Why don’t cha dip him in some egg and flour next? We toss him in the frying pan, we got supper! We’re havin’ Fried Fox tonight!”

Now they’re all in hysterics. Even the man who usually hates his given name can’t help but laugh along, especially when it makes his lovely company so happy.

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

Scully enters the basement office Monday morning to find Mulder already there, flipping through an open drawer in the filing cabinet.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.

He looks up and smiles. “Good morning. Long time no see.”

“How was the rest of your weekend? Did you guys do any sightseeing or anything?”

“No, we just had a late breakfast yesterday before I took her to the airport, but it was good to catch up some more. She told me to thank you again for letting us tag along for ice cream. It was really nice.”

“It was,” Scully agrees.

Mulder appears to be considering something for a moment before he crosses over to the desk and picks up a small envelope.

“She also told me to give this to you,” he says almost bashfully, extending the envelope in Scully’s direction. “She told me I couldn’t look inside, and I didn’t. But I think I know what’s in there, and if I’m right, you don’t have to keep it. You can just leave it here on the desk.”

Well, now she’s intrigued. Scully opens the envelope to find a small handwritten note at the top.

“I thought you might like these. I have plenty more too, if you’d ever like to see them or want any more stories. Please don’t be a stranger.”

Scully lifts up the note to see the remaining contents inside and finds a small stack of photographs, a mixture of more school photos along with a few wallet-sized family portraits and a couple candids taken on the beaches of the Vineyard or Rhode Island, she can’t tell. But she sees the same set of eyes in all of them.

She looks back to read the rest of the note.

“I’m so glad I got to meet you, Dana. Take care!”

Below Aunt Helen’s elegant signature, she has also written her home address and phone number. Scully will have to call and thank her.

“She tried to give some to me,” Mulder explains, “but I didn’t really want…and like I said, you don’t have to…”

“No, I’d like to keep them,” Dana insists.

Mulder lets her statement hang in the air for a moment, but he can’t help but diffuse it.

“You just want more blackmail material.”

“Something like that,” Scully says teasingly, but there’s no bite behind it.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

She chuckles lightly as she shuffles the photos into a neat stack to place back in the envelope, thinking that this is the point where they get back to work. Mulder stays standing in front of her and appears to be considering something again. Does he have another envelope that he’s afraid to give her?

“You know it was pure luck that we ended up at Petrino’s the same night as you. I actually gave Aunt Helen a few options and let her choose. I was pushing more for that Thai place in Arlington, just off Old Dominion. The one that’s been there forever,” Mulder explains.

“Oh, the one with the secret menu? I’ve still never been there. Can’t say I’m surprised that Aunt Helen wasn’t up for Thai food, though.”

“Yeah. Fair point,” Mulder nods for a moment too long before continuing. “Would you like to go there sometime? Like this Saturday? With me?”

Scully slowly looks up from the envelope to see Mulder’s face because in all matters, other than the divine, Dana Scully needs to see to believe. And the slightly nervous yet gentle grin that she finds allows her to believe it to be true – Fox Mulder has just asked her out on a real date.

“I would like that,” Scully says gently.

“Good. You wanna say 7:30? Or we can always figure out time later,” Mulder states, aiming for practicality to keep him from grinning like a complete idiot. He ends up grinning like a moderate idiot, but he’s okay with that.

“Sounds good.”

Yep, Scully will definitely have to call Aunt Helen and thank her.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis Ch.26: Over the Sea

The Premise: What if Claire had conceived on her wedding night with Jamie? How would that change the plot points we all know and love?

We’re coming down the home stretch folks! Our get away car is in the harbor! We just gotta get em there! 

You can find a Master List of chapters here on tumblr or read the whole thing on AO3. 

February 21st, 1744; The Abbey, Scotland Jamie.

I stifled a groan in Claire’s curls as the church bell tolled three, my arms reflexively tightening around her as I tried to ignore the fact that it was time to get out of bed.

I hated to wake her.

The night had not been an easy one for my wife — were they ever these days? — and Claire only just managed to fall back asleep, but I knew she’d need a wee bit of extra time to dress this morning… as her appearance was vital to our ruse.

Smoothing the tousled curls away from her brow, I placed a kiss on her temple, then trailed one after the other until I reached the base of her neck. She stirred at my touch, her eyelids flickering and one corner of her mouth pulling upwards towards a smile, but didn’t wake. My hand lowered to her hip, then slid along the distended curve of her abdomen as my lips found hers.

Her own hands moved then, reaching and finding me in the darkness.

“Good morning,” I murmured into her palm, brushing a kiss across it as her hand drifted round to the back of my head.

One eye cracked open to scowl at me at this greeting, her words slightly jumbled but still coherent, “Thisn’t morning, y’oaf. Dark’out.”

I curled my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning at her offended expression, the innocence of slumber still lingering on her face and made her appear very much like a spoiled, pouting child.  

Claire felt my suppressed amusement and struggled to open both her eyes. Her brow furrowed with the effort it took to spear me with what I’m sure was meant to be her best look of consternation, but it fell short. I kissed her soundly in an effort to keep from laughing outright, rousing us both completely and bringing us directly back to why we’d risen at this inhospitable hour of the morn.

She sighed a moment later, a wistful look dancing across her now clear eyes.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” I swallowed hard, excitement mixing with the fear of the unknown as my stomach churned.

“Time to leave.”

... Half past 4am.

The wind howled around us as we stepped from the shelter of the abbey out into the open courtyard, cautiously picking our way across the frozen cobblestones. It’s nasty chill bit at any patch of exposed skin it could sink its teeth into and my cheeks and hands were already red and raw from ensuring the rig was properly loaded with our things.

I hastily grabbed for the carriage door, lunging for it before it was really in reach as I was eager to get Claire out of the cold, but she was of a different mind.

“You won’t say a word if we’re stopped, will you?” she inquired, pulling up short and studying my face intently. “Or only in French if you must? That cap’ll do to hide your hair, but there’s no mistaking your voice.”

My hand instinctively went to the back of my neck, feeling the rough wool of my knitted hat. It would keep me warm, certainly, but pulled low as it was, it went a long way to hide the telltale auburn hair that was plastered all over my broadsheets.

“Aye, er, oui Madame,” I promised, squeezing her hand reassuringly with a forced smile as I helped her onto the first step.

Wobbly as a new foal, I steadied her as she picked her way into the dark carriage. Murtagh held his lantern high, giving her light to see as she eased herself into the padded cushions and meticulously arranged the folds of her cloak.

“The same goes for you, hmm?” Claire’s head snapped up to look at us, her gaze locking onto my godfather’s. Her eyes narrowed in a rather unreadable expression of consternation mixed with something akin to a challenge as she continued, “Not a word from the both of you. Let Francis do the work and the talking until we’re aboard ship.”

I caught the twitch of my godfather’s lips out the corner of my eye — despite his heavy beard and the early morning darkness — and marveled yet again at the relationship the two of them had formed while I was away.

“And I can quite handle myself, thank you very much,” she added in afterthought and under her breath, almost as if to reassure herself as it was to us.

Claire caught the mirth bubbling up beneath my gathering nerves and reached out her hand to me. I took it in an instant, leaning in and keeping my voice low, even though I was sure no one but our present company could hear us.

“May your brilliant mind and unbridled tongue keep us safe, my love,” I blessed her in French, then dropped my hand to the swell of our children. “And may you both bide until we are safe.”

She crossed herself, the barest hint of a shudder running through her, and I dove into the carriage beside her, pulling her into my arms and vowing, “No harm will come to you, Claire. I give you my word.”

“I know,” she murmured back after a moment and I loosened my grip.

Sitting back, she waved me off.

“We need to leave if we’re going to catch the tide,” she insisted with a smile that gained confidence by the second. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I blinked at her for a moment, which made her laugh — a heartily welcome sound — and I shook my head with a smile of my own.

“Oui, Madame,” I stepped back onto the ledge of the doorway, “I am entirely at your service, my Lady Beauchamp.”

She nodded curtly and dismissed me fully, all but shoving me out into cold with a single look.

I grinned at her and exited the carriage, shutting the door firmly behind me. Turning, I moved to join Murtagh on the bench up top but hesitated a moment before climbing aboard.

That they might be safe… both she and the children.

My eyes slid shut, my heart offering up the rest of a prayer that I could not put into words.

“Come along, a bhalaich.”

Murtagh’s command was urgent yet gentle and I reflexively moved to do so, hastily crossing myself before climbing up beside him with a fluidity that hadn’t been mine since before my injury. I nodded to him and with a flick of the reins, he set us into motion.

I held my breath as we passed through the main gate and left our safe haven behind.

There would be no going back.

We hadn’t traveled long before we encountered the first crofter’s hut, still shut up and slumbering in the early morning dew. I scanned the road ahead and caught sight of a small copse of trees off to the left side. This particular stretch of road wasn’t bounded by forest, so it would make a perfect lookout post, should a soldier or two want to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the abbey.

And they certainly would.

My gut clenched as we approached, wishing the lanterns posted on the corners of the carriage were bright enough to see what we were about to ride into. The mare on the right snorted to her teammate and I flinched. It took everything within me to not grab the reins from Murtagh’s hands and turn us around.

“Steady,” Murtagh coaxed in the language Claire had instructed us… one I knew he didn’t particularly care to use.

To anyone listening, it’d be logical that he would have been speaking to the horses, but I knew it was intended for me.

… Claire.

The carriage began to slow and I spat out an emphatic, “Fuck!”

I bit down hard on my lower lip, the sharp pain competing against my rolling stomach and spasming back. The deep, frozen ruts of the lane did little to ensure a smooth ride to the harbor and the combination of my raw nerves and the carraige’s jolting, jostling motions were enough to set me completely on edge.

Lifting a hand to the ridiculous bonnet atop my head, I adjusted it slightly and then arranged my skirts around me. Our success was dependent on my looking every inch a respectable woman of wealth and I was determined to have everything in place when that door opened. We came to a complete stop long before I was ready and I forced myself to take as deep of a breath as was possible in my current state.

Here we bloody go, Beauchamp.

Male voices began to bark orders, sending a shiver down my spine, and I steeled myself for the gust of frigid air mingled with danger that was sure to come at any moment. I didn’t have to wait long, for the door opened in the next second and I saw the face of Lady Margaret’s most trusted footman, Francis.

His expression gave nothing away as he offered his hand in assistance — the as yet unseen redcoats obviously requested I present myself — and I donned my most affected air, slipping into the personage I’d crafted in my wakeful hours of the night.

“Tell them I wish to speak to their commanding officer,” I sniffed, drawing my cloak tighter around me, “and do shut the door, Francis, or I shall catch my death of a chill.”

One brow twitched and I caught the briefest of smiles flicker across the chap’s face before he disappeared back into the night, doing exactly as I’d asked.

More voices sounded in conversation outside the carriage, taking on an air of confusion as a whole, with the exception of Francis’ Lowland lilt.

“Ye better do as th’Lady asks, ye ken,” he warned and I couldn’t help but grin in the dark in spite of my nerves. “She’s not one t’bide... an’ she’s a ship t’meet.”

There was a shuffling of feet and a clanking of metal, but one person had obviously moved off and all discussion faded away into nothing. A few moments passed in anxious silence until a new disgruntled voice suddenly asked, “Have you found something, then?”

Bile rose at the back of my throat as I thought of them finding Jamie up above me, but I didn’t waver from my plan.

Negatory remarks followed the new voice’s inquiry and the officer — for indeed, he must be — was informed of the situation.

Francis opened the door again and I launched into my tirade, “What is the meaning of this inconvenience, Captain?! If my ship departs without me, I shall ensure that you are stripped of your position, paraded through the streets barefoot in nothing but sackcloth and ashes, and unable to find a place of employment as anything but His Majesty’s scullery maid!”

The officer stood slack jawed just outside the door in perfect response to my tirade, obviously not expecting a well-bred, highly enraged, loyal British subject on the road at this hour.

“Do come in and explain yourself,” I huffed, beckoning him forward, “you must have a reason for holding up honest traffic in the middle of the night like a Highland bandit.”

His mouth snapped shut at this and his brows rose all the way to the edge of his wig as he climbed inside, a lantern in hand. I blinked at the sudden brightness, but it only helped to permanently affix my scowl.

“Now, who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” I titled my head to the side, feigning interest while looking very much like an addled bird, I was sure.

“Captain George Brooks, my lady, of, ah, His Majesty’s Third Battalion,” he cleared his throat, stammering slightly. “I, well, I sincerely apologize for Private Richardsen’s rather forward behavior and, well, the delay.”

He studied me quite openly, his gaze taking in my fine clothing and warm cloak. The captain seemed to take me for what I appeared to be, for he quickly continued, “You see, Madam, we have word that an escaped convict has sought sanctuary within the abbey and are stopping and searching every conveyance that leaves the place.”

I stiffened at the word convict, but used it to my advantage.

“I must tell you, Captain, that I was the guest of the good brethren and can assure you no such man exists,” I leveled him with a look that made him squirm. “And, certainly, no one of such quality is among my men.”

“I consider the Scottish brutes to be a detestable sort and am on my way now to leave this godforsaken country,” I sniffed, forcing myself not to choke on the absolute fallacy of my own words.

Captain Brooks nodded at this, but it was clear from his gathering frown he had questions for me.

“There’s a respectable tavern in the village where my men are quartered,” he shifted, leaning forward slightly. “Why stay with the heretics when other suitable — and dare I say safer — lodging was available?”

I snorted, feigning disgust, “I’d rather sleep in the gutter than under the roof of a Highland villager, Captain… and as for the heretic Papists, you forget that a good many of His Majesty’s subjects are such.”

He caught sight of the jet rosary on display around my neck and had the good grace to wince.

“My apologies, Lady…,” he trailed off.

“Beauchamp,” I supplied for him, ready to rattle off my concocted scenario. “My husband is Lieutenant Commander Alexander Beauchamp of the Royal Navy and I’m meeting him in Portsmouth… that is, if you and your men will permit us to be on our way.”

My companion shifted uncomfortably once more, groveling, “Yes, well, I see there is no reason that you should not be allowed to travel on. I shall send a man ahead to alert the guard at the port. They’ll see that you board and depart without interference.”

“How good of you, Captain,” I commented, forcing a smile as a sudden wave of nausea overtook me.

Hurry up, Captain, or you shall be wearing my breakfast.

... Jamie.

The captain strode out the door of the carriage, nearly knocking Francis off his feet, and beckoned wildly to his lieutenant. I tensed, nearly grabbing the reins out of Murtagh’s hands, but instead steeled myself as I caught his orders on the wind.

“Ride ahead,” he motioned for a horse to be brought round, bellowing, “Tell Phillips to let them through without trouble and ensure no one delays their departure... And If I hear that so much as a seagull spoke out of turn to the Lady Beauchamp, I shall have both your head and your commission, Hawkins!”

Lieutenant Hawkins swung into the saddle with a barked yes, sir and was barreling down the path ahead of us a moment later.

I blinked in surprise, then let the darkness of the night hide the beginnings of a smile that warmed my face.

Well done, mo nighean donn.

…

Claire.

The remainder of the ride to the harbor was something akin to cruel and unusual punishment.

The road had gotten better some time ago — the carriage no longer pitching from side to side with every rut we hit — but I still felt every stone, every bump we drove over. The muscles of my lower back and left hip spasmed with a ferocity that I had never experienced, protesting their rough handling in a language that I could not ignore. My stomach rolled, my chest heaved, and it was everything I could do not to lose my cookies all over Lady Margaret’s velvet cushions.

Breathe, Beauchamp.

I slid my eyes shut. It was dark as the deepest cave around me, but somehow the feeling of closing my eyes still gave me a barrier to the outside world.

You did it.

We’d passed through the checkpoint undetected, sent on our way the very man in charge of the entire operation. I couldn’t let my guard down yet, though, couldn’t celebrate this victory until we were really, truly well on our way on the open sea.

I shook my head, trying to fixate on something steady, something outside of the tossing, tumbling barrel I was currently deposited in.

Jamie.

I did allow myself to smile then.

What did he think of it all? Of our walking through right under the redcoats' noses?

I was thankful he had Murtagh at his side through the whole ordeal, but I still wished I could have been with him. For my presence beside him to steady his nerves.

Who are you kidding, Beauchamp?

You couldn’t have climbed up there next to him if your life depended on it.

Well… maybe only if it truly depended on it.

My hands moved, my arms cradling the curve of my distended abdomen as I shifted against the seat cushions. Climbing aboard this conveyance had been interesting enough… I didn’t want to think of what getting aboard the Demeter would entail.

The footman Francis was a short, sender slip of a thing, and while that suited his career perfectly, it wouldn’t suffice should I need assistance boarding the ship.

No one would think twice of Jamie’s strong form helping me… would they?

My heart lurched to a stop, skipped a beat, then thundered on as the carriage began to slow and I realized the next hurdle was upon us. We didn’t stop, but continued to crawl along for many minutes, allowing me time to right myself and prepare for act two of my facade.

When Francis did open the door… I was ready.

… Around 5am, Aboard the Demeter; Jamie.

A dhia, what a woman.

I shook my head in amused astonishment as I watched Claire’s rigid form dismiss Colonel Phillips with a flick of her hand, then turned to the captain of the ship and pointedly asked for shelter from the cold. We hadn’t the time to inform him of her ruse before we boarded, but he gruffly acquiesced and motioned for her to follow him into the cabin.

Seeing that Phillips had disembarked and none of his men were looking towards the ship, I slipped into the shadows of the gathering dawn and trailed after them.

“I do apologize for my tone on deck, Captain,” I heard her sigh as I entered the small, cluttered room. “We sincerely appreciate your kindness and understand the risk you’re taking in bringing us aboard.”

“Aye, well,” he shifted from foot to foot, not quite sure what to make of my wife, “‘Tis nothin’ much… so long as ye stay within an’ out of my men’s way, ye ken.”

I’d gathered in our short time on deck that the crew’s opinion of my wife was something akin to an omen of bad luck — as a woman aboard ship often was — and had no intention of letting her out that door again until we were disembarking onto French soil.

Claire turned as the ship’s captain left, realizing I was there for the first time and her face completely crumpled. She looked as though her body was about to follow suit and was at her side in a moment, gathering her into my arms and tucking her head securely beneath my chin. I could feel her begin to tremble from head to toe against me and looked wildly around for a place for her to sit.

Not readily finding one, she clung to me as we stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly with the motion of the ship.

“Ifrinn,” I muttered when I found I could finally speak, “I shouldna let you do tha’, mo chridhe.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” came her soft reply, muffled by the front of my coat.

I shrugged at this, knowing she was right, but wishing my heavily pregnant wife hadn’t had to be the one to navigate us through the lion’s den.

“But ye did verra well, indeed,” I had to admit, more than a hint of pride coloring my voice.

She snorted in objection to this and I grinned, turning back her hood and shedding her of that ridiculous cap in one movement. Placing a kiss amid her curls, my hand cupped the back of her head.

Lifting her chin, she looked up at me, fatigue evident in her eyes. I kissed her soundly then and she turned in my arms, looping her own around my neck with a contented sigh.

“Are you cold?” I asked, placing a kiss on her warm neck but had felt her chilled cheek against my own.

“No, not very,” she rested her head against my shoulder. “It’s much better in here.”

I nodded, agreeing as my gaze lifted and I began to examine the quarters we’d been given.

Captain’s quarters they may be, but it was also clearly a storeroom for a good portion of  his cargo. Crates stacked upon crates loomed around us like a forest of trees, with bundles and baskets cast about on the floor in unorganized chaos. There didn’t seem to be a bed to be found  in any resemblance of the word and this gave me no amount of disquiet.

Resigning myself to a sturdy crate that was roughly sitting height to my left, I slowly moved Claire in that direction, easing her down onto it as I went in search for better accommodations. She flapped a weary hand at me, encouraging me on my way as she loosened her stays and let out a shaky breath.

I wove in and out of the stacks of goods, desperate to find a place for my wife to lay down. There were large wooden trunks and canvas wrapped parcels, small wooden crates and barrels of various volumes and heights… but no bed. I discovered something resembling a hammock slung in one corner, but as that would never do, I dismissed it immediately and continued my search, doubling back and returning a different way than I’d come.

“Jamie?”

Claire’s voice had me leaping over a canvas wrapped bundle and grabbing for the bucket I’d caught out the corner of my eye. I reached her just in time for her to deposit her breakfast in the receptacle, her eyes wide and cheeks gone an unearthly pale.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” I gushed, keeping a stray curl from getting in the way of things. “I shouldn’t have left yer side… tis the same wi’ me, too.”

In truth, our current rhythmic motion was nothing compared to what we’d experience once we left the harbor, but I had the good sense to let that be.

Claire shook her head, glowering into the depths of the bucket and grumbled, “It was that bloody roller coaster.”

“Mhmm,” I commented noncommittally, not entirely sure what that was but fairly confident she meant the carriage ride here. “Aye, well, ye’re off it now.”

She retched again, as if the very mention of the conveyance had set her stomach into motion again.

“Shh, my own, it will be better in a moment,” I assured her in Gaelic as I knelt beside her, smoothing back the hair from her face and rubbing her back.

Offering her my handkerchief when she appeared to be done, I took the fragrant bucket from her and set it aside, though within arm’s reach should she need it again.

“Are you alright?” she squeaked, the color beginning to creep back into her cheeks.

I stared at her, my brows nearly to my hairline as I asked incredulously, “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” the frown was back, but I could see that the wheels were churning furiously behind those amber eyes. “You were just paraded in front of an entire battalion of redcoats… that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

I shook my head, shrugging off her concern, assuring, “I’m fine, Sassenach. They didna give me so much as a second glance, thanks to you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

A slow smile tugged at my lips at her slow, deliberate enunciation of every syllable of this declaration.  

“Aye, I ken jus’ what ye mean,” I reached for her hands, twining my fingers between hers, “an’ I think ye ken me better than I ken myself, at times.”

She snorted at this, dismissing the notion.

“If I do, then it’s the same with me,” she muttered, wiping at her face.

I grinned, squeezing her hands tightly.

“Oh, aye, mo nighean donn… I do, indeed.”

[swanqueeneverafter]

I Believe In Us

A Belated Christmas Story. Set during ‘The Once & Future Queen’. *Spoilers lie ahead* After the kiss that sent Emma back home to the future, Storybrooke’s fate is now uncertain. Can the curse still be broken without the Saviour? Will Regina be able to move on from her latest heartbreak and mend her relationship with Henry?

Storybrooke. The Mayor’s House. (Emma walks Henry up the garden path towards the house.) Henry: “Please don’t take me back there.” Emma: “I have to. I’m sure your Mom is worried sick about you.” Henry: “She’s evil.” Emma: (Scoffs:) “Evil. Boy you were a handful back then weren’t you?” Henry: “What?” Emma: “Er… nothing. Listen, Kid. I’m sure that’s not true. (Emma’s breath catches when she sees the front door open as if in slow motion:) Here we go.” Regina: “Henry? Oh! Henry! (Runs out and hugs him:) Are you okay? Where have you been? What happened?” Henry: “I found my other Mom!” (Henry runs inside the house. Up until this moment, Regina has only had eyes for her son. Turning to face the woman beside her, Regina gazes into the eyes of her long lost love.) Regina: “Emma. You… You’re Henry’s birth mother?” (Unable to speak, Emma merely nods.) Sheriff Graham: (Awkwardly:) “I’ll… just… go check the lad, make sure he’s okay.” (He leaves.) Regina: “How… I don’t understand…” Emma: (Smiles, lamely:) “It’s a long story.” Regina: “You’re really here. (Slowly reaches out to touch Emma’s face:) I’ve waited so long… just to see you again.” Emma: (Softly:) “I know.” Regina: “All of this… everything you see… I created it, hoping that one day we’d be together again.” Emma: (Nodding, Emma takes Regina’s hands in her own:) “I need you to do just one more thing for me.” Regina: “Anything.” Emma: (Smiles:) “Kiss me.” Regina: “I thought you’d never ask.” (Regina steps forward and claims Emma’s lips with her own. Her eyes widening at the passion coming from Regina, Emma notices that her body begins to glow with a brilliant golden light. Wrapping her arms around Regina to hold her close, Emma shuts her eyes tightly and surrenders fully to the kiss.) Moments Later... (Basking in the emotions of once more being in the arms of the woman she loves, Regina is about to run her hands through the blonde woman's hair when all sensation suddenly stops. Regina's eyes spring open just in time to see the shimmering gold outline of Emma's body disappear before her eyes.) Regina: (Reaching out with one hand, whispers:) "Emma..." Boston. Emma’s Apartment. (Emma enters with a bag and places it on the counter. She takes out a gourmet cupcake and puts a candle on it, lighting it.) Emma: “Another banner year… (She closes her eyes and blows out the candle. The doorbell rings. Emma opens the door:) Shaw?” Shaw: “Hey, Swan. Happy Birthday.” Emma: “Uh… thanks. What are you-” Shaw: “I got another case for ya.” Emma: “Oh, really? You know what, maybe you ought to take it, my car’s just been stolen and-” Shaw: (Pushing past Emma and walking into the apartment:) “I would, but this guy prefers blondes. Hey, shut the door, you’re letting the heat out.” (Emma nods and closes the door with a sigh.)

Storybrooke. One Week Later. (Henry Mills lays on his bed with his back to the door when his mother enters the room.) Regina: "It's time for your therapy session." Henry: "I don't want to go." (Regina pushes open the door further and gently joins him on the bed.) Regina: "Well I think it'd be good to talk to someone. (Pats Henry on the leg:) C'mon. (Henry rolls over and gets up from the bed:) That's my boy. (Henry pulls on his jacket:) Henry, do you mind telling me what started all this? I mean we used to be so close and now-" Henry: (Picking up the storybook he turns and holds it out to her:) "Here. (Regina takes it:) I thought this had all the answers, but I guess I was wrong. You take it, I don't want it anymore." (Placing the book on the bed, Regina opens it and flips through the first few pages while Henry heads sullenly towards the stairs.) Lowell, Massachusetts. Dentist's Office. (Emma Swan sits flicking through the pages of a magazine in the waiting room. From time to time she covertly glances at the man seated across from her.) Receptionist: "Mr. Mitchell? Doctor Hughes will see you now." (Mr. Mitchell nods, tosses the magazine he was reading back on the table in front of him and heads towards the dentist's office.) A Few Minutes Later. (Having given the local anaesthetic drugs time to take effect, Emma barges her way into the doctor's office where Mr. Mitchell is being treated.) Doctor Hughes: "Excuse me, you can't be in here." Emma: "Oh I can't afford not to be. You see, Doc, this guy is my next meal ticket." Doctor Hughes: "Excuse me?" Emma: "Well, Alex here has run up a few debts, and I've been hired to track him down." Doctor Hughes: "I see. Well nevertheless, I'm about to fix this man's smile." Emma: "Yeah, I'd hold off on that if I were you, Doc. Unless you like to work for free? You wouldn't be the first person Alex has failed to pay. (Doctor Hughes presses the button on the dentist's chair causing it to raise Alex back into an upright position:) Good choice. (Notices something:) Ooh. (Picks up a teeth whitening chart:) Egg shell white might look nice?" Doctor Hughes: (Pulling off his gloves:) "Just get him out of here." Emma: (Smiles:) "You're the doc, Doc.”

Storybrooke. Main Street. (Regina is walking down the street and sees Marco struggling to repair a sign and Ruby and Granny arguing. She looks bored.) Archie: “Beautiful day.” Regina: “Save it.” (She bumps into Mary Margaret.) Mary Margaret: “Oh! Mayor Mills, I am so sorry.” Regina: “I ran into you. Why are you apologizing?” Mary Margaret: “No, I should have been looking where I was going.” Regina: “You’re not even going to fight back?!” Mary Margaret: “Fight back? Why would I do that?” (Walks away.) (With siren blaring, Sheriff Graham's police cruiser pulls up alongside Regina, startling her.) Regina: "Turn off that damn siren!" Sheriff Graham: "Apologies, Madam Mayor but... (Steps out of the car and leans against it:) You've been a hard woman to track down lately." Regina: "Well I’ve been busy. After all, I do run this town, sheriff." Sheriff Graham: "I understand that. But I also realise you may have been avoiding me and I believe the reason has something to do with the owner of that vehicle over there. (Graham points towards the yellow bug parked across the street:) I think we should speak again about how Henry's birth mother suddenly arrives in town and leaves just as quickly without her car?" Regina: "I've told you all I know, sheriff. Henry's birth mother gave away her rights to him years ago and when my son turned up on her doorstep, she obviously couldn't drop him back home and get the hell out of this town fast enough. Don't expect me to understand the mind of a woman like that!” Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer. (Walking with purpose, Regina enters Mr. Gold's shop, turns the open sign to closed and slams the door shut.) Mr. Gold: (Overly cheerful:) "Regina, how wonderful it is to see you!" Regina: "You son of a bitch." Mr. Gold: "Quite possible. I never knew my mother." Regina: "Enough games, Gold. I thought you were heartless before, but this? Using her as part of your sick little plans?" Mr. Gold: (Calmly:) "You know, every once in a while you come into my shop and rave at me about some great wrong that you believe I've done to you. I must confess, each time leaves me more perplexed than before." Regina: (Scoffs:) "You have no idea what I'm talking about, is that right?" Mr. Gold: "I'm afraid not." Regina: "Then let me illuminate you. I am talking about Henry's birth mother." Mr. Gold: (Furrows his brow in thought:) "The woman who was found in the woods outside Storybrooke around... how long ago must it be now?" Regina: "Twenty eight years ago." Mr. Gold: "Ah yes. What about her?" Regina: "She was here. She brought Henry back from Boston with her." Mr. Gold: "Oh yes, I think I heard something about that from Doctor Hopper. Despite Henry running away, it sounds to me like everything worked out in the end.” Regina: "Only the thing is, Gold, I met her before... years ago and yet when I saw her again, she didn't look a day older. How do you explain that?" Mr. Gold: (Smirks:) "I'm told some women age more gracefully than others?" Regina: "Oh cut the crap! There's simply no way that Emma could be-" Mr. Gold: (A look of recognition dawns upon his face:) "Emma… What a lovely name." Regina: (Realising something has just changed between them:) “You… you built this into this whole thing, didn’t you? You made this happen because the mother… she’s…”

Mr. Gold: (Composing himself:) "Do you ever get Deja vu? She's what, Madam Mayor?" Regina: "She's the Saviour. But you told me that..." Mr. Gold: "There's a complete thought in there just screaming to get out." (Regina paces the floor in thought, then turns back.) Regina: "It's impossible. You told me the Saviour was the child of Snow and Prince Charming." Mr. Gold: "Did I?" Regina: "Play dumb all you want, you little imp. Whatever your schemes were, they're finished. Your Saviour vanished into thin air. There's no one left to break the curse. I have Henry, I have this town and finally, after destroying your plans... I truly have my revenge!" (Regina strides to the door, pulls it open and walks through it. Leaving Mr. Gold fuming in her wake.) Worcester, Massachusetts. (Sitting at the bar, Emma orders another drink. Watching her from the dance floor, Shaw excuses herself from her dance partner, walks over and takes the seat beside Emma.) Emma: (Notices Shaw staring at her:) "What are you looking at?” Shaw: “I'm just trying to figure out what it'll take to get you to open up.” Emma: “Open up what? I'm open. I spent my birthday alone. I spent Thanksgiving alone and now it looks like I’ll be spending Christmas alone. It sucks, but it’s been this way all my life.” Shaw: “How do you feel?” Emma: “Like it sucks.” Shaw: “Right. But are you mad, sad? Do you feel like throwing things, or crying your eyes out?” Emma: “I don't know. (Sighs:) Neither, both, all of it. I don't know.” Shaw: “And I thought I was tough to crack.” Emma: “I just need to drink, okay? And since my car was stolen, I’ve got no excuse not to.” Shaw: “Actually, you do. I’m about five minutes from convincing my mark to leave with me then I’ll need your help getting him tied up and stuffed in my trunk. So if you want a ride...” Emma: “I know, I know. I gotta earn it. (Grabs her drink:) Last one, I swear.” (Shaw gives her a look and then heads back to her dance partner.) Shaw: (Emma smiles when she hears Shaw talking to the unsuspecting man:) “Of course I was coming back, it’s so nice to find a man who’ll let me lead.”

Storybrooke. Dr. Hopper's Office. (Regina and Archie discuss Henry's treatment.) Regina: "What the hell is going on, Doctor Hopper? My son is pulling away from me and he's become even more sullen and depressed than before." Doctor Hopper: "Madam Mayor, you must understand. Henry has just received two big losses in his life. In the world he created for himself, Henry believed that his birth mother only gave him away due to circumstances beyond her control. After having found Emma and telling her what he believed to be true, the fact that she quickly returned him and left without so much as a backwards glance was devastating to him. He not only lost his birth mother for a second time but also the hopefulness that came from his belief system." Regina: "But surely that's a good thing? Now that Henry has seen the truth, he should be able to move past it?" Doctor Hopper: (Nods:) "That is what I had hoped would happen. But as you've seen for yourself, Henry only seems to be retreating further into his shell." Storybrooke Elementary School. (Regina visits Henry's teacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard.) Regina: "What in the hell did you tell my son about this book?" Mary Margaret: "Just that they were some old stories to give him hope. As you well know, Henry is a special boy: so smart, so creative, and as you might be aware, lonely. He needed it." Regina: "Well your dose of hope has sent Henry into a full blown depression. I mean look at this nonsense. (Flips to the page depicting Prince Charming putting baby Emma through the wardrobe:) What kind of so-called heroes put their own interests ahead of their new-born child?" (Walks away from the table to stare derisively at the crudely painted bird houses.) Mary Margaret: (Nods:) "I'll grant you that part of the story is mortifying but that's just the beginning." Regina: "What are you talking about? That's where the storybook ends." Mary Margaret: "I'm sorry, Madam Mayor but you're wrong. Look." (Glancing back towards the table, Regina watches as Mary Margaret turns over several pages of the storybook, each illustrating further stories that are unfamiliar.) Regina: "Let me see that. (Scans the pages:) These weren't in here before." Mary Margaret: "Perhaps you just missed them? I know how busy you are, Madam Mayor. (Looks at the clock:) And I have a class due here any minute. (Guides Regina towards the door while she continues to read through the new pages:) Please send Henry my love and tell him his whole class is thinking of him." (Without a word, Regina merely nods and continues reading, paying no attention to the mass of school children now surrounding her as they make their way to their next class.) Mills House. Evening. (That night, despite a long standing house rule of no reading at the dinner table, Regina finds herself unable to tear her eyes away from the storybook. Having excused Henry after a disastrous meal of burned lasagne and second helpings of ice cream, Regina sits alone fully engrossed in the story of the Saviour, Emma Swan and the former Evil Queen, Regina Mills. Eventually, after hours spent reading, Regina’s tired eyes begin to fail her. Unwilling to be parted from the storybook, Regina makes her way up the stairs, clutching the book closely to her. Peering in on Henry to find him fast asleep, Regina makes her way to her own bedroom and closes the door.) The Next Morning. (Sheriff Graham stands waiting outside the Mayor's mansion while Regina speaks to Henry.) Henry: "Wait a minute, you're leaving me here by myself on Christmas Eve? Don't you remember those Home Alone movies we watch every year?" Regina: "I remember, Henry. Vividly. But you're not going to be alone, I've asked Doctor Hopper to stay with you until I get back." Henry: "And you're not going to tell me where you're going?" (Regina does not answer, giving her son a sympathetic look.) Regina: "Sheriff Graham and I have to get going. I promise I'll be back to tuck you in, okay?" Henry: (Sighs:) "Okay." Regina: "Now give me a hug. (Henry wraps his arms around his mother:) I love you, Henry." Henry: "I know you do." Regina: (Holding him closer:) "And?" Henry: (Smiling despite himself:) "I love you too, Mom." Regina: "Good boy. (She kisses him then straightens up:) We'll be back before you know it.”

Boston. Emma’s Apartment. (With the storybook under her arm, Regina nervously approaches apartment 205 and knocks on the door.) Emma: (Opening the door:) "May I help you?" Regina: (Stares at her for a long moment, then smiles:) "Hello. You don't know me, my name is Regina Mills. Around ten years ago you gave a baby up for adoption. His name is Henry and he's my son." A Short Time Later. (Seated opposite each other with the storybook and two glasses between them, Regina and Emma discuss Henry.) Emma: "So your son believes that everyone in his home town is a fairy tale character? (Regina nods:) Hey listen, if you're here to ask about my family history, I'm sorry but I can't help you." Regina: (Smiles:) "That's not why I'm here. Henry only started to believe these things after reading that book." Emma: (Shrugs:) "Seems pretty simple to me, just tell him no more stories until he's old enough to tell the difference between fantasy and reality." Regina: "That's just it, Miss Swan, the problem isn't that Henry believes the stories to be true." Emma: "It's not? (Regina shakes her head:) Then help me out here because I'm feeling a little lost." Regina: "The problem is... that they are true. Every last one of them. (When Emma moves backwards in her seat:) I cast the curse that brought everyone from my world to this one. The land without magic." Emma: "Riiight. Well I think we've found the route of Henry's problems." Regina: (Lowers her head:) "I know." Emma: "You're clearly feeding his delusions." Regina: (Looks up quickly:) "What?" Emma: "Well no wonder he thinks these stories are real if you're playing along with him." Regina: "No, Emma, that's not what I meant. (She reaches for the storybook and turns to a page depicting Emma and Regina's shared magic:) Don't you see? That's us!" Emma: (Glances sceptically at the page:) "I guess there's a faint resemblance... but come on, who are you trying to con?" Regina: "You don't believe me?" Emma: "How can I? What you're talking about... magic and fairy tales... it's impossible." Regina: "In this land, yes, but in the Enchanted Forest-" Emma: (Scoffs:) "The Enchanted Forest? Are you even listening to yourself?!" Regina: "I'm not lying to you, Emma. Everything you've ever wanted to know about your family, who you are and where you came from, it's right in here." Emma: "Why are you doing this to me?" Regina: "All right, you want proof? Your yellow bug is waiting for you outside. I drove it here from Storybrooke." Emma: "You what? So you stole my car?" Regina: "No, I've returned it after the other Emma took it to drive my son back home." Emma: "Oh, the 'other' Emma took it? (Stands:) Okay lady, it's time for you to leave." Regina: (Also stands:) "You don't think I know how insane this sounds? The fact that I'm stood pleading with the one person destined to destroy everything I've built, everything I've worked so hard for? (Emma folds her arms, unmoved by this:) Back home, everyone does exactly what I want them to do. Not because they want to, but because they have to." Emma: (Sarcastically:) "Right, because of the curse?" Regina: "My revenge, my so-called happy ending? None of it is real. Henry is already pulling away from me more and more each day. There is only one way to break the curse and I am begging you for your help." (Emma simply stands watching Regina for a long moment before speaking.) Emma: "Even if I did believe any of this and somehow managed to break the curse, aren't the people of your town going to want revenge for what you've done?“ Regina: (Nods:) "And then some." Emma: "Then why would you want to bring that upon yourself?" Regina: "Because I have read what happens next. (Reaches over and picks up the storybook:) This book contains the story of our past and what I can only conclude is a possible version of our future. Half the stuff in here hasn't even happened yet. (Holds out the book to Emma:) But I have seen a glimpse of what my life could be... and I choose us." (Feeling more vulnerable than she has in years, Regina watches closely as Emma slowly reaches out and takes the storybook.) Outside Emma's Apartment Building. (Sheriff Graham is waiting beside his police cruiser when he sees Regina approaching quickly.) Sheriff Graham: "Regina, is everything all right?" Regina: "Give me the damn keys, I'm driving." Sheriff Graham: "I'm not sure that's a good idea." Regina: "Give me the keys or I will take them from you, sheriff." (Graham pulls the keys from his pocket and hands them over. Running quickly around the car, Graham just manages to slide into the passenger seat before Regina turns on the ignition and, tyres screeching, drives away.) Sheriff Graham: "I take it things didn't go well?" Regina: "I don't want to talk about it, I just want to get home to my son before Christmas." (Regina reaches over and turns on the radio, effectively stifling any further attempts to talk.)

Emma's Apartment. Later That Night. (Emma paces the floor while Shaw tries to make sense of what she's heard.) Shaw: "So you're telling me that a successful, gorgeous woman knocks on your door, begs you to be her Saviour and you just let her go?" Emma: "It's a little more complicated than that. Did I mention she's nuts?" Shaw: "The adoptive mother of your son who you've never told me about?" Emma: "Why would I mention that? It was meant to be a closed adoption for a reason. Did you not hear the 'she's nuts' part?" Shaw: "Even if she is, aren't you even just a little curious to find out about your family?" Emma: (Scoffs:) "You mean my parents who according to that book, just so happen to be Snow White and Prince Charming? Sameen, you and I live in the real world. You can't possibly think there's anything to this nonsense." Shaw: (Flips through the storybook:) “I don’t know, if the people in Storybrooke are even half as hot as they appear in this book..." Emma: "Don't you ever think with another part of your anatomy?" Shaw: (Staring at a picture of a fairy named Astrid:) "I know who's anatomy I'm going to be thinking about tonight." Emma: (Throws up her hands and grabs her coat:) "I need some air." Shaw: "Emma, come on...“ (Slamming the door to her apartment closed behind her, Emma pulls on her coat and heads towards the stairs.) Roof Top. (Pushing open the door to the roof top garden, Emma immediately feels the cool evening air upon her face. Believing herself to be alone, Emma walks towards the edge of the building before hearing a voice behind her.) Apprentice: "Your friend is right you know." Emma: (Spinning around, her eyes are slow to focus as the man steps out of the shadows:) "And who are you supposed to be, Santa Claus?”

Apprentice: (Smiles:) "Perhaps. Tell me, Emma, at what point did you stop believing?" Emma: (Sighs:) "Listen, whoever you are, I'm not in the mood for any more mind games tonight." Apprentice: "Of course not. You usually like to spend Christmas Eve drinking yourself into a stupor so that you can sleep through Christmas Day entirely." Emma: (Unable to argue this point:) "All right, let's say you're right about that. Does that make you my guardian angel? Have you come to show me what my life could be like? Have you come to save me, Clarence?" Apprentice: "In a way, I suppose you could say that. You are destined for great things, Emma Swan. Great things that you can only hope to achieve if you allow yourself to believe in the impossible." Emma: "You're talking about hope? Sorry, but that kinda gets stomped out of you when spend your entire life being rejected by those who should love you the most." Apprentice: "All it takes is a spark. Just one person believing in you can be enough to send you down the right path." Emma: "I walk my own path. Alone." Apprentice: (Nods:) "Naturally, I forgot who I was speaking to. With you, Emma, seeing has always been the only way you have ever truly believed." Emma: "Yeah, well call me crazy, but I prefer to live in reality." Apprentice: "Indeed. Although I do wonder what could cause you to ever take a real leap of faith? If seeing means that you will believe, then perhaps you'd like to take a look over there?" (The Apprentice points towards the edge of the building. Anxious for this to be over, Emma gives the Apprentice a withering look before turning and walking to the edge to peer down at the street below. Suddenly, a flurry of movement gives Emma only a split second to move out of the way before what can only be described as a flying vehicle brushes past her. Looking up into the sky, Emma turns and sees a red and gold sleigh being pulled by eight reindeer flying high above her head. Spinning around once more, Emma sees that the bearded man has now vanished while the sound of sleigh bells can be heard faintly fading into the distance.)

On The Road. (Driving through the night, Emma heads out of Boston while sparing a glance at the storybook which sits beside her on the passenger seat. Smiling to herself, Emma increases her speed, determined to reach her destination as soon as possible.) Storybrooke. Christmas Morning. Mills House. (With the storybook tucked under her arm, Emma makes the long walk up the garden path towards the Mayor's mansion. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocks on the front door.) Regina: (Opens door:) "Emma?" Emma: "Hey. So... I read the book." Regina: "In one night?" Emma: "Yeah, once I started reading, I um... couldn't put it down." Regina: "I know what you mean." Emma: "Mm." Regina: "And?" Emma: "And... look I'm not saying I believe everything in there to be true. But, I think if there’s even the slightest chance that it is, we'd be crazy not to give this a shot." Regina: "Hm. Well, according to you, Henry and I are already crazy." Emma: (Gives a nervous smile:) "Then I guess I'll be in good company. If your offer still stands?" Regina: (Steps aside to allow Emma entry:) "Are you sure you're ready for this?" Emma: (Nods:) "I'm ready to take a leap." Regina: (Smiles warmly:) “Me too.”

The End.

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “Love So Sweetly” (Part 1 of 2) (au)

Summary: If you ask either of them, they’ll both claim it isn’t their fault. It starts with feuding musicians, a pair of handcuffs, and the evolution a relationship can go through over the course of 24 hours. 

Rating: E

Warnings: handcuffs? 

A/N: Hello, friends. Can we talk about how fucking difficult it is to figure out the logistics of how two people would move while handcuffed together, and then to put those movements into words that other people will understand? Pain in the ass, but I hope y’all enjoy this. This was started almost three years ago for AU Week 2016, and I posted a snippet, and then never got back to it. Thanks to @xemmaloveskillianx​ for making @csmarchmadness​ so I could get back on this and finish it up. Except, of course, for the cosmic joke that is my life... It’s not finished yet. This is part 1 of 2. I will get Part 2 done as soon as I possibly can, because the end is so near I can taste it!!

And again, thanks to the whole CS March Madness Discord for being so damn lovely. I was so lucky to have you all cheering me on and entertaining me, caring when I needed that little bit of extra care (and advice), and just being all around excellent people. And a hearty thank you to my beta, @captainstudmuffin​, for finding all the shit I overlooked a thousand times. 

Find it on Ao3 or FFN!

-x-

The Storybrooke Music Festival has been a staple of Almost-Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine for longer than most people that attend it can remember. The tradition of the gathering, in some cases, has been passed down from generation to generation, where the kids of the rockers and attendees are now the ones rocking and attending, and this year is no different from any other.

From all around the country, bands have flocked after being invited to play – some are bigger names, some smaller, some lost in the between. Some are one-hit-wonders and others have topped the pop charts for months at a time. The thing they all have in common: they’ve gathered here because their fans nominated them and the committee voted to invite them.

Over the span of a few acres, there’s a main stage and two smaller ones, with a sprawling campground surrounding the whole thing. And then there’s the vendors and merch stands, the specialty shops that have paid to set up. During the few days that the festival takes place, it’s anybody’s guess who will be there, where the weather will fall, and what will happen.

It’s early summer, but in their particular location, that still means a pop up storm or two. The days are warm, but without the drought of mid-summer, the paths that are marked for walking are quickly turning runny with mud, which normally would be fine. Normally.

“Well, princess maybe if you didn’t want a little mud on the tires, so to speak, you should’ve avoided the music festival ring! If the lowlands here are so offensive to you, perhaps you should get back to your pampered mansion back up on the hill.” Ignore the fact that he can also access the VIP tents as a musician, but it’s the principle of the matter…

None of the parties involved remember how this all started, besides the fact that Killian Jones, one half of the small-time Hook & Crook, fell in front of the golf cart that Emma Swan and Ruby Lucas, two thirds of The Ugly Ducklings, were riding in while one of the web media teams interviewed them. To be more precise, he fell on the hood of the golf cart, after he slipped in a slick spot of mud. The hit to the hood did something, however, and now the two woman are standing outside the cart as the media team struggles to get it working again, while Emma and Killian snipe back and forth at each other.

“It’s not the mud I’m mad about. I would happily get the hell away from you if you hadn’t stalled out our damn ride, though. Why weren’t you paying attention? You could’ve gotten seriously injured, you know.” Her finger is jabbing into his chest, belying the message she was spouting off.

“Careful love, you might make a man think you cared with such impassioned speeches,” Killian tells her, toe to toe, boot to boot, in front of the stalled out cart in question. That his are knock off from a secondhand store and hers are knee high genuine leather matters little to either of them, now. He sways into her space in a tantalizing way, his arrogance getting the better of him in this situation.

In retaliation, Emma straightens to her full height. Despite being shorter than him by almost half a foot, Killian swallows. It’s not her star power. He knows damn well who Emma Swan is. He won’t admit to the tracks he listens to in his downtime, with Emma’s voice conducting his mood like a bloody maestro without even trying.

No, Emma is a powerhouse without having to stand behind her fame.

Keeping up the façade of cocksure, he knows that whatever her next move is will be the finishing blow. She opens her mouth to tear into him, but a high-pitched honking causes them to snap out of it. He actually releases the tiniest of relieved breaths after the interruption, after Emma jolts away from him, thankful that she didn’t have a chance to use that legendary sharp tongue on him. He thinks himself a proud man, but he’s not sure even he could take getting verbally filleted by one of his celebrity crushes.

“What seems to be the problem here?” The woman is one Killian has seen around the festival since the gates opened the day before. She’s older, gray hair loosely pinned in a bun and glasses hanging around her neck from a beaded chain.

“Granny!” Ruby rushes at the older woman with a bright smile. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

“Goodness, child, there’s been no hiding involved. I’ve just been keeping feuding rock stars in line. Speaking of, this looks like some trouble.”

“It’s nothing, Ms. Lucas,” Emma says, her whole demeanor softening to the obviously familiar newcomer.

“You know to call me Granny, dear! And this doesn’t look like nothing,” she says, motioning between Emma and Killian. “This is a festival to bring all kinds of musicians together. Emma, you know that better than most since this was your first break, right?” Granny takes one of Emma’s hands in her own, smiling fondly at the blonde.

She turns to Killian next, looking him up and down once and giving him an appreciative grin.

“You look like a tall glass of trouble. You boys harassing my girls?”

“Not at all, ma’am. Just a mild stumble that began a misunderstanding,” Killian says, laying the charm thick by grabbing her free hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Mhmm, well, mild misunderstandings are solved easily enough,” she says. “I have just the thing.”

“Granny?”

There’s something in the tone of Ruby’s voice that catches his attention, and he turns to see the slightly horrified look on her face. With speed he would’ve never credited the older woman to possess, he certainly doesn’t have time to stop her before he feels the cool metal snap around his left wrist. He looks down in confusion at the chain, following the line of it to where it’s connected to the other cuff, which is now locked in place around Emma’s right wrist. When Granny managed to pass his hand over to Emma’s instead of her own is beyond him, but the older woman is moving swiftly away from them, a grin on her face.

“What – “

“Granny, you can’t!”

                                                                                                                     “Let’s see how that works for you two! Now get along and maybe I’ll take them off!”

Faster than anyone can react, Granny is back on the cart that brought her to them and she’s speeding away. Ruby runs after her, followed by Robin, who’ve both figured out that their bandmates have just been handcuffed together.

Killian and Emma, however, are still rooted in place, disbelief painted on both their faces. They make eye contact, the reality of their predicament slamming into them at the same time before they look at their rapidly disappearing freedom.

“Wait!” they call out at the same time, taking off sprinting as a unit.

How Granny manages to disappear into the crowd so quickly is beyond all of them. Of course, she does have the advantage of being on wheels where the rest of them are all on foot. It feels like they’ve been running and searching for miles, all while the crowd ebbs and flows around them.

The only thing they can really do is head back to the VIP tents with a quick flash of their badges. There’s beer waiting from them, handed over from multiple angles, and Emma and Killian both take one in their free hands and greedily gulp from the clear plastic.

“Any luck contacting Granny?” Emma asks when she’s halfway through the beer. She looks down at her boots and sniffs once in annoyance. They’re not covered, by any means, but he’s guessing she had no intentions of getting them dirty at all. His have about the same amount on them, but he’s eternally grateful that he didn’t fall in front of the cart, because he cannot imagine trying to clean up while Emma is with him. Or change, for that matter.

“None. She must not have her phone on and none of the techs will let me contact her on the walkie.”

“I’m going to kill her. You know that, right?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that,” Ruby mutters, sipping from her cup.

As they all settle in, assessing what to do next, Killian sits back and observes the people around him. The other women, he knows, are Mary Margaret and Ruby, and there’s another one off to the side on her cellphone, the stern set of her face speaking of management.

“Regina,” Emma says, catching where his line of sight is trained. “She’s our manager. She’s trying to track down bolt cutters or something. Ruby texted her on our way back up here.”

“Ah, well. Hopefully she’ll succeed. I cannot imagine having to be stuck this way for much longer.”

“You and me both, pal.”

“Killian,” he says, holding out his right hand. “Killian Jones.”

She stares at his outstretched hand for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, before she finally relaxes and lifts her right hand as much as she can, given their situation. “Emma Swan.”

“I’m sorry for the spat earlier,” he tells her, honesty at the forefront. He genuinely can’t remember who started hurling insults first but it was bad form, all around.

Emma fidgets a little, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. “Same. It’s uh, been a long day already and the weather isn’t helping.” He knows that all too well. The temperamental showers passing through have been hell since he and Robin left New York.

Whatever Killian goes to say next is cut off when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He releases her hand to dig it out and opens the message from their friend-but-also-manager, David, who they may or may not have forgotten about in the interim.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Killian says, scrambling to chug the rest of his beer and motion to Robin. “We play in half an hour. We’ve got to get over to our stage. Now.” He’s not sure how he let the time slip away from him so fast; he’s been looking forward to nothing but this set for ages.

“What? Hey, you’re attached to someone, you know. Go easy on the tugging.”

He looks down at where he’s clearly moved without thought again, noticing at the same time that there are dual red marks on their wrists from where the metal has dug into their skin. “Please, Swan, don’t make me beg. We barely lucked into this slot, and if we don’t play then we won’t get invited back.”

Emma stares at him for the length of ten heartbeats, and then she sighs. “Fine. Let’s get going. This should be interesting.”

The trek from the musicians’ tent to the stage where Hook & Crook are supposed to play is not an easy one. For both being musically inclined, and thus, coordinated enough to play instruments, they’re both incredibly clumsy when attached to another person. The number of times they yank each other in separate directions is somewhere in the twenties by the time they reach their destination (and right on time, thankfully). Killian is convinced that they will kill each other if the cuffs aren’t removed in a timely fashion.

To say the crowd is a bit surprised at the appearance of one Emma Swan on stage is a bit of an understatement, as they first gasp in surprise, then cheer wildly when she raises her right hand (along with his left) in greeting to wave at them all.

“We seem to be the victims of a cruel and unusual social experiment,” Killian tells the audience when they get settled. His voice booms out among the audience thanks to the amplifiers, even if they aren’t as big as the ones Emma will be plugged into tomorrow on the main stage. He’s damn proud of their attendance, so now it’s important to make the performance match.

It takes Killian all of two seconds to realize the biggest oversight yet, just as soon as he goes to pick up his guitar. He realizes it’s a problem, of course, because Emma’s hand goes with his.

“Shit,” she whispers, at the same time much less pleasant words are coming from his mouth.

“What do we do?” Try as he might, there’s panic licking up his spine and bloody hell would it be so much easier if he played the keyboard or something.

“I have an idea,” she tells him, picking his darling guitar up by the neck and turning to face him for a minute. After making sure the shoulder strap is in place and his hands are where they’re supposed to be, Emma supports her hand on his forearm and otherwise turns so she’s partially behind him. It’s awkward, feeling someone standing close, and her hand will no doubt get tired, but holding it the way she is means he still has complete freedom to move his hand to play. He strums a few chords just to make sure it’ll work and gives her a look and a thumbs up.

He does his best to forget about the woman literally attached to him, which is a little hard at first. But then the music kind of takes over, as it always has with him, and he’s lost in the set list he and Robin have played for years; this is what he works for year round – this opportunity to play for this crowd, some of whom have followed their little duo for years.

To his surprise, Emma doesn’t get tired of where her hand rests, even tapping along to the beat with her thumb. After three songs, she presses her back against his and starts swaying back and forth behind him, compelling him to move as well. It becomes difficult to remain solely focused on the song he’s playing when he can feel her shimmying against him.

“It seems as though our unexpected guest likes my music,” Killian says into the microphone, turning his head just enough to smile at her as she looks over his shoulder. The crowd cheers again, and they launch into their next song, one the audience clearly knows well enough that he feels pride welling in his chest when they sing along. He knows their time is running out, but he lets the buzz of performing wash over him, enjoying the way Emma is still moving to the beat at his back.

Their last song is a crowd favorite, so while he gives the audience a moment to sing the lyrics back to him – the ones he spent hours getting just right – he takes the time to appreciate just where he is, almost forgetting about the handcuff on his wrist, and the argument from earlier. With the final notes, the crowd starts cheering and whistling, and he smiles as he leans towards the mic to thank them again for their time.

The coordinator to the side of the stage waves to get his attention, and Killian glances over expecting to see the gesture for wrapping up. Instead, he grins wide when he sees the girl asking him to stretch their set by just one more song. They’re out of songs that are ready for performance, so he’ll have to think up something quick.

“We have time for one more song, and I think we should let this one choose the tune,” Killian says, using the chain that connects them to pull Emma back around to stand next to him. She groans and rolls her eyes, but glances back at Robin. With a thumbs-up from him, she looks to Killian and raises her eyebrows.

There’s a heavy pause, one in which she’s clearly thinking of the right song that they’ll both know.

“Hold your hand up,” Emma tells him, and without further preamble, she stomps her foot twice on the stage, followed by a high five for the clap that should follow. She repeats the motion a couple times to the audience, getting them to join in with a little help from Robin, before she reaches for the mic. She keeps up the double foot stomps but lets the crowd do the claps.

He idolizes Freddie Mercury, and appreciates the way Adam Lambert sings the lyrics of the famous Queen song, but he finds he’s instantly attracted to the way Emma’s voice sounds singing the opening lines of “We Will Rock You.”

Without discussing it beforehand, they perfectly switch off between stanzas, singing the chorus together. Killian is no Brian May, but he manages a guitar solo that makes the crowd go wild as Emma stamps her foot through the end of it. The applause is a level of deafening that Killian has never heard before, having drawn even more of a crowd than they normally would’ve with those passing by who heard the song. And while they take their bows at the end and exit the stage, he knows it won’t be soon that his adrenaline wears down.

Just as they’re giving a final wave, he spots Granny on the outskirts, looking something like proud. Instead of pulling away and letting the chain drag Emma along, he grabs her hand, yelling out to Robin that he’ll meet him later if this works, and they take off running. At the stage entrance, he holds still long enough for David to unstrap his guitar. He gives one quick “Thanks, mate!” before they’re off again, running and hoping.  

By the time they reach where the older woman just was, the spot is vacated, and the audience is trying to clamor around them for autographs and pictures.

“Which way did she go?” Emma’s yelling to be heard over everyone else, both of them on their tiptoes to try to see if they can spot her.

“I couldn’t tell,” Killian says, his defeated tone obvious as he turns back to her. “Should we?” The circle around them is closing fast, and they either need to break out while they still can or resign themselves to signing and smiling for a bit while the stage changes set ups.

As if noticing the people around them for the first time, Emma’s face goes from fallen to smiling. She looks at him, shrugging a little and reaching for the nearest autograph book and pen that someone’s holding out. His hand jerks along with hers, and they look at each other and sigh.

The rain that falls just a few minutes later is a blessing, because they can finally slip away as everyone else scatters at the same time. With no sense of direction, they start running, and Killian is thankful for the open yurt he sees just ahead, especially when thunder rumbles ominously much closer than he expected. He pulls Emma in just as the rainfall turns to a total deluge, and lightning flashes brightly.

By now, they’re likely postponing shows and getting festival goers to safety, so there’s no chance they’ll be moving before the storm passes, and no chance they’ll find Granny in the meantime. Other than to check the weather outside, the occupants of the yurt barely pay attention to them as newcomers. There are blankets covering the whole floor, in a circle around a young woman with an acoustic guitar, and as someone stands to close the doors on the weather outside, Killian leads Emma further in along the curved wall. They find an empty spot to settle down, both shivering from the moisture that’s soaked through their clothes.

A young woman with a mane of fiery red hair hands Killian a blanket. Her eyebrows go up and she stifles laughter when she sees the handcuffs. He’s not one to blush, and yet he feels his cheeks heating in response to whatever this woman is imagining. He opens his mouth to explain, to defend his honor, whatever – but the quiet applause for the woman playing in the center of the room cuts him off, and the woman with the blankets wanders away.

Emma smiles at him gratefully as he hands her one end of the soft fleece. Working together, they manage to get it around their shoulders, huddling close to get the most out of the material.

In between songs, he finds time to ask. “How are you holding up, Swan?”

“I’ve been better, Jones. I’ve been better. Hey um, thanks for including me in your set. That was a lot of fun.”

“Aye. I’d wager the crowd loved it just as much,” he notes. He wants to say more, to tell her how much he’s enjoyed this little adventure they’re on together. He wants to tell her how much he loves her music, and that he’s been a fan for ages. That he never meant to let their meeting escalate the way it did. She’s looking at him, her eyes darting between his, as if she’s reading his mind and can hear the words he can’t seem to speak. The set in the yurt continues, so he resigns himself to a tight-lipped smile and a nod, which she accepts with a small bob of her head. He unconsciously presses a little closer to her, not realizing how she returns the movement.

It’s several songs later that they notice the sounds from outside the yurt have quieted down, and they fold the blanket and leave it where they were sitting. Emma makes sure to snag one of the cards and demo discs that are sitting out on a small table near the entrance, something Killian failed to notice on his way in. Then again, he was mostly concerned with finding dry and safe and warm at that moment.

The long trek back to the musicians’ tent is spent in amiable silence. Neither are thirsting for conversation, but it’s not the same hostile silence they had at the beginning of this day. Someone slams into Killian, though, and the quick jolt to their wrists is enough for Killian to grab her hand again, leading her over to a merch stand somewhere halfway between where they were and where they’re going. He chooses two wrist bands at random, handing over the money and turning back to Emma before she can even question what he’s doing.

“Here, should make things a little better.” He holds one out for Emma, waiting until she’s wiggled hers on with a relieved hum before he does the same. The cold metal is no longer digging into his skin, which is the most important factor. “Shall we?”

They weave their way back to the musicians’ tent, stepping as carefully as they can through the mud that’s starting to form faster with the sudden rainfall. He’s used to festivals being a little rougher than indoor shows, so he does his best to keep his eyes on the ground and guide them through the worst of it.

When they get back to their destination, Ruby is engaged in conversation with another woman, and Killian immediately notices a disturbing pattern of managers looking very smitten with band members, or vice versa. Robin might have actual hearts in his eyes as he listens to something Regina is saying. Meanwhile, David and Mary Margaret look like they’re about five minutes from planning their wedding.

Killian looks at Emma, who looks back at him with a similar expression. She shakes her head, working her way over to where they’re all sitting and throwing her hands up in victory as their friends all turn and cheer for them.

“Where the bloody hell have you been, mate?” Robin claps him on the shoulder, and Killian would buy his concern if it weren’t for the fact that he’s sure Robin forgot he existed for a bit, there.

“We tried to track down Granny,” Emma explains. “But we were too late. Then got mobbed by fans. Then got stuck in a storm. Then ended up in a tent listening to an acoustic show.”

“Sounds like you two have had quite the adventure,” Ruby comments, her grin directed at Emma and looking something along the lines of predatory, if he had to put a name to it.

Emma hums in response, eyes narrowing as she looks at her friend. Whatever conversation they have between themselves during that moment, it’s something Killian isn’t meant to understand. Instead, he focuses on checking his social media accounts with the phone that David has returned over to him. He’d plum forgotten that he’d given it to Dave before they started their set.

He’s surprised when the biggest trending picture from the festival is one from Ruby’s account. There he is on stage, glancing over his shoulder at Emma behind him, she who has her eyes closed and is clearly mid-dance move against his back. It’s taken from the backstage area, and he didn’t even realize Ruby bothered to follow them, but he’s going to have to thank her for it later, and get the original sent his way so he can frame it and hang it up. It’s not every day you get to play a show handcuffed to someone you view as an idol. But there was the living proof of that.

“I can’t just sit here,” Ruby announces not more than ten seconds after his thoughts. “Let’s go explore!”

-x-

As far as ideas go, Ruby could have better ones sometimes. For one, she could be tracking down her heinous grandmother (who she would never claim is actually heinous in any other circumstance – the woman practically helped raise her, after all) to get a certain key to a certain set of handcuffs. She could be walking back to Storybrooke’s town limits to find her own spare key, for all Emma cares. But no, instead, her friend and bandmate is talking about how she’s apparently bored.

“Uh, Red? I’m kind of… stuck to someone.”

“So what? We bring him along. And any of the others that want to join?” She looks around at their strange group as she says it.

“Wait, wait. That’s it? You don’t have any other back up plans? A hairpin? A lock pick set? A good set of bolt cutters?” The whole group turns to look at Emma’s outburst, but no one says a word.

“I mean, you can try. But I swear those things are made of magic. They’re the only pair I was never able to bust out of without the key.”

The fact that Ruby’s been stuck in these cuffs, or that she’d been stuck in other pairs of cuffs, is no surprise to her, but it doesn’t facilitate a reaction with anyone in the circle either. Where did she find these people?

“So, we going?”

Mary Margaret visibly brightens as Ruby draws attention to her plan. “You’ll come, too?” she asks David. Ugh, even Mary Margaret has forsaken her. She knows David by reputation only; she’s met him a couple times and even likes him, but she knows that as soon as the manager turns a hopeful look towards Killian, they’re all apparently going gallivanting around the music festival.

“I guess that can be arranged. Now that Hook & Crook are done for the day, there’s really not much else for me to do,” David finally says after a wordless conversation with Killian.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Regina says, clearly taking on the air of Important Manager of an Important Musical Act.

“Count me out,” Robin says following her declaration. “I’ve had quite enough excitement for a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” Ruby says, clearly dismissing him and turning back to the rest of the crew. “Come on. There’s a Ferris wheel with my name on it.” Without further prompting, she grabs Emma’s hand and starts dragging her away. Killian isn’t quick enough to move, so his shoulder gets jolted again before Emma grabs his hand and pulls him along. She makes sure to murmur an apology to him as they exit the tent, and his quiet reply starts her heart beating like it was when they were on stage together.

That’s quite enough of those emotions, though. She’s been back and forth on the emotional spectrum since this morning, and really, some cliché pitter patter of her heart is just one step too far. So she had fun with him performing. So he’s easy on the eyes. So what? So are plenty of other men, and she’s certainly not about to one-night-stand a guy she’s literally stuck to. That just feels like asking for the key to be lost or the handcuffs to be rotted shut and then they’re just living out their days: the losers who got stuck handcuffed together and had sex once. Nope. No thanks.

Okay, so that’s a little hyperbolic, even for her. But she’s noticing that she’s getting used to the feeling of his hand in hers, and the sound of his voice as he quietly asks about the newest joiner of their group.

At the head of the pack, Ruby walks side by side with Mulan, who Emma points out to Killian as Ruby’s girlfriend. She does casual security for them as they walk through festivals such as this, so it’s Mulan who clears the path for them to walk through, herding them easily enough through the crowds and making sure they have enough space at all times. It’s clear Killian is out of his comfort zone – while he seemed to have a great amount of his own followers at their show and afterwards, and even as they sift through the crowd, he doesn’t look like he’s used to this large mass of people clambering to get selfies or autographs. Mostly, he just keeps hold of her hand and does his best to keep up.

That’s not to say they don’t stop for some of the fans. There are quite a few times where the three women just can’t ignore the people around them, and Mulan sighs in mock frustration (a smile on her face the whole time) as they linger with fans for a couple minutes at a time, trying to cover as many people as possible. They have a reputation (Emma especially) for trying to get to everyone, and so Mulan is hard on her to move along after an allotted amount of time.

What does come as a surprise is the amount of people who ask for pictures of Emma and Killian together, their handcuffed wrists held up like some kind of publicity stunt or punishment depending on what people ask. He tries to keep up with it all, and Emma gives him a quick smile before they keep moving again towards Ruby’s ride of choice.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks as they get escorted to the front of the line. There are some tiny perks to their ‘fame’ if she says so herself.

“Better than expected. That is, it’s not every day you wind up handcuffed to some beautiful celebrity and find out how the other half lives.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as the carriage comes to a stop in front of where they’re standing. All six of them load in, and Emma tries to keep her wayward emotions in check as she ends up pressed tight against Killian’s side.

The whole grounds of the festival stretch before them, with the stages visible out one side and what feels like miles of camp grounds all around them. There are other rides, ones she doesn’t think they’ll be able to handle with two people trapped together, but she smiles as she watches them cycle through, the thrilled screams of passengers filtering all the way up to them at the top.

As the wind whips around them, Emma glances at her companions in turn. Understandably, Ruby and Mulan are huddled together, with Ruby’s arm wrapped around Mulan’s shoulders and their cheeks pressed together as they look out at their surroundings. David and Mary Margaret are holding hands, a new development judging by the nervous smiles on their faces, and they’re glancing between each other and the view. Killian, however, is looking at her. As soon as she looks back at him, he darts his eyes to the side to look out at the landscape, but there’s a hint of smile on his lips while his hair dances in the breeze. She is very aware of how tightly she’s gripping his hand, unnecessary while they’re not in motion but habit now, nonetheless.

When the ride is over, they slowly disembark to a bunch of fans waiting. The crowds at the festival aren’t quite mob mentality, so it’s something they can handle and enjoy – these small groups that just want a small introduction and a moment to say their thanks. While she may have a few more fans trying to capture her attention, Killian still has a few things to sign and fans to greet while Emma is preoccupied with her own. She smiles when she catches sight of him talking with a smitten teenage girl, enjoying the way he’s so genuine with the people around them.

To be honest, after hearing him play, she wants to look him up online, find his albums, find out who he is without… you know… talking to him. Because that’s how she is. If she asks him questions, she’ll have to answer some of the ones he has for her, and that’s not how she does things. What’s weirder is that this whole scenario should be in the realm of “SOS immediately” in trying to get him unstuck from her, but Emma can’t help but slowly adjust to it all. Is this an ideal way to meet a man? Hell no. Is she going to make the most of it? It certainly seems that way.

As Mulan starts to move them along the path again, Emma’s stomach makes a loud growl, and it’s the first time she realizes how hungry she is. “Where the hell can we find some food?” she wonders, grabbing Killian’s hand and pulling him away from the departing fans. “You okay?”

She’s very aware, all of a sudden, that they are alone again somehow. He hasn’t said anything for a minute or two and the silence is suddenly unusual coming from him. But then he shakes his head and smiles at her, blaming his momentary lapse on his own lack of food.

“Pretty sure there’s loads of places we can find something to eat, love. Let’s sail away,” he responds, swinging their hands as they go along.

There was something there she just missed, and she can feel it. There’s something he’s not saying, a lie by some kind of omission, covered up by hunger, but when her stomach rumbles away again, she forces down that part of her that can sniff out a lie like a drug-seeking dog and focuses instead on food options.

They wander from stand to stand, weighing their options and discussing pros and cons of the various food choices. As they go along, she relaxes again and finds that she’s enjoying herself way too much. It’s not often that Emma finds herself calm in the company of a relative stranger. No – usually, when it’s outside of her fans, her skin crawls at the very prospect of spending any time with someone she doesn’t know.

Add in the fact that she is handcuffed (she feels as if she cannot emphasize this enough) to said stranger… well, let’s just say that Killian Jones is lucky there wasn’t anything pointy or stabby in near reach when Granny first locked the cuffs around their wrists.

Every moment since then has been a learning experience. It took more self-control than she thought it would to be teeth-grittingly polite after their initial predicament became clear to them. But man, as soon as that bravado, tough guy act faded away, Killian has been nothing but sweet and accommodating.

“Swan, onion rings,” he says, suddenly dispelling her thoughts again as he says the most magical words someone could ever say to her. “And frozen hot chocolates.”

“I don’t know about the frozen thing. I’m already starting to get chilly again,” she says. And it’s true. She’d left her jacket in the VIP tent when they went out for their interview, but the day had been sunny and glorious to start out. Now, with the sun setting and another round of clouds moving in, she shivers. It turns out leggings and a fitted t-shirt don’t do much, especially after a good soaking from the earlier rain.

Killian halts her progress towards the food stand for a quick detour to a small merch tent nearby. The young man running it looks like he has about a thousand safety pins attached to his outfit, and a surly look on his face. But when Killian waves a twenty, the kid’s whole demeanor changes. “This for the largest size of the goth Tinkerbell jumpers, and another if you give me all the extra safety pins you can find, along with a pair of scissors.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at his request, but Felix, as he introduces himself, grabs the items Killian has requested in record time and piled them on the sticker-covered table in front of the stand. When Killian goes to cut the side of the hoodie, Emma’s stomach reminds her that she’s starving and she throws in her own money. “I’ll give you an extra twenty if you cut that and wait for us to get back.”

Suddenly, Felix goes bashful. “I’ll do it for free if you sign an autograph for my cousin. She’s the model for the logo there, and she’s one of your biggest fans.”

“Deal. Just let me grab my food and we’ll be right back,” Emma says, smiling in victory as she pulls Killian over to the food stand he’d already spotted. They come back to Felix’s tent after Emma is already halfway through her onion rings, with a grilled cheese and two waters in the bag Killian is holding. After Emma holds up her end of the bargain, making sure to also promise a selfie with the cousin in question if she’s around the following day, Felix even helps them with the makeshift outerwear, diligently pinning the top seam he cut after realizing it would be easier for her to step into it instead of pull it over.

Encased in the soft, fleecy material, and having been fed, Emma is far more comfortable than she has been since she woke up this morning. Of course, that brings a whole new predicament. How the hell are they going to sleep? Because surely, they’ll have to do that at some point. She planned on sleeping on the tour bus which is fine in a pinch, but it’s a tight fit for her. How will Killian fit in there, too, unless he’s on top of her?

Suddenly, her mouth is dry at the thought, but she’s saved from her earlier thoughts of attraction by Killian’s gasp.

“Is that Granny up there?” All she can do is keep up as he moves them in a direction, and Emma realizes as she hears a loud chiming in the distance that it’s after midnight already. A whole day gone, but was it ever truly wasted connected to Killian Jones?

-x-

See you soon for Part 2!

[welllpthisishappening]

Out of the Frying Pan (16/?)

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning forward so her back arched into his chest and Emma appreciated the way he inhaled sharply through his nose. She grabbed garlic cloves and bobbed slightly on her feet, looking for thyme and she hoped the pan she’d left on the stove before she moved towards the incredibly well-stocked pantry was actually hot by the time she got back.

“I am trying to find appropriate spices,” Killian muttered in her ear, leaning his hand over her to grab the thyme.

“Ah! I was looking for that.” “You’ve got to move faster, love.”

AN: Happy Chopped day! Or, at least, the first two rounds of Chopped. 7K of cooking and flirting and something called dragon tongue bean’s. 

Living it up on Ao3 and tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

She might have actually cut him.

Emma could feel him stiffen underneath her, the soft, questioning Swan as Killian’s eyes pulled back up to her and he didn’t move an inch. Not even when she was fairly positive she’d cut the back of his neck.

“Sorry, sorry, are you ok?” she asked quickly, fingertips brushing over the back of his neck and God was that blood? That might be blood.

She’d definitely cut him.

He raised one of his eyebrows at her – he still hadn’t moved – and Emma was doing her best to stay rooted to the spot on the edge of the counter.

She wanted to run – every instinct in her body telling her to move,  but Killian’s hands were still on her hips and he was standing in between her legs and there was someone else standing in the doorway anyway.

Ruby was staring at them and Killian was standing in between her legs and the smile on her producer’s face probably could have cracked several mirrors it was so goddamn pointed. “Well, I was going to make some sort of crack about forcing Emma to kiss and tell,” Ruby laughed. "But I guess I don’t have to do that anymore, do I?”

Killian squeezed his eyes shut and it looked like he was trying not to rest his head on her shoulder dramatically – and Emma wouldn’t have actually argued if he did that. “You are a child, you know that,” Emma shot, fingers still brushing over the back of Killian’s hair.

“And you were supposed to be back in hair and makeup ten minutes ago.” “You told me as long as my face wasn’t shiny you didn’t care what I did.” Killian’s eyes snapped back open and he grinned at her and Emma felt her leg tighten around his thigh slightly. Ruby was nearly hysterical.

“Yeah, and I’m fairly positive it’s not shiny, but there might be a few hickeys you want to cover up,” she countered, leaning against the open door frame. “That kind of stuff has a tendency to show up on camera.” “And you know this from experience?” “Please, Dor’s not nearly that sloppy. And I’m not the one on camera.” Ruby pushed off the door frame, heels echoing in the otherwise still-empty studio and Killian, finally, moved, taking a step away from Emma, but keeping his hand on her knee. “Plus,” Ruby added, glancing towards Killian. “Regina’s been trying to figure out where you’ve been for the last fifteen minutes. And you’re welcome for covering for you.” “Thanks, Ruby,” Killian muttered and Emma was smiling like an idiot –  a well-kissed idiot who seemed to have stumbled into something .

“Yeah, well, I figured I owed you. One of the last times I saw you I was a drunken mess and kind of mean and that’s not really how I roll.” “I know that.” Ruby almost looked actually repentant and Emma was positive she’d never seen that and, God, this was a weird day. A weird, very good, possibly wonderful day. “And you guys should probably stay at least several inches apart sooner rather than later. People are going to come in here soon and while they might not be surprised to see two network all-stars making out on the studio counter, it might not be the most professional thing you guys could do.” Emma groaned, but Killian laughed, hand tightening on her knee again as he glanced up at her with that stupid smirk. And she still didn’t run.

She didn’t want to.

Weird. What a weird day.

“I think we can control ourselves for the rest of the afternoon, don’t you, Swan?” Killian asked, voice low and meaningful and shooting straight to her core.

She nodded slowly, teeth tugging on the inside of her lip while Ruby stared at her with the most blatant I told you so face she’d ever seen in the history of the entire world. “I don’t see why not,” Emma mumbled, sliding off the edge of the counter.

Her sneakers squeaked when she landed.

“I’ll go fix my face now,” she said, wondering what exactly controlling ourselves meant.

“That’s not even remotely what I said,” Ruby sighed.

“Ah, got you to feel bad. Mission accomplished.” “You’re diabolical.” “And you interrupted.” “I noticed.”

Killian’s hand landed on the small of her back, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching her and Emma’s mind raced – she still had to cook. He still had to cook. They had to cook in front of a camera.

And it all felt a little d éjà vu.

Although the last time they did this, her producer hadn’t found them making out like teenagers in the middle of the studio.

“I better go find Regina,” Killian said softly, fingers tracing up her spine as he spoke. “Make sure she hasn’t actually pulled her hair out yet.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head and Emma felt her eyes widen, meeting Ruby's gaze a few feet in front of her. The producer just smiled, lips pressed together tightly like she was trying not to laugh in Emma’s face.

And then Killian walked out the door and Ruby practically cackled.

“Shut up,” Emma muttered, making her own way to to the door. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” “I didn’t say anything,” Ruby laughed, doubled over with her arm wrapped around her waist.

“You’ve done enough.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, head tilting back as she continued to laugh towards the ceiling. “Oh God, I can’t wait to tell Mary Margaret. She got the emotional heart-to-heart this morning and I walked in on the two of you bordering dangerously close to ripping your clothes off in the studio. It’s almost too perfect.” “Hey,” Emma said sharply, yanking on Ruby’s arm and every trace of laughter was gone, replaced by a serious look she’d only seen on a few rare occasions. Mostly when they were talking about something important – like the show.

This might be more important than the show.

“Maybe don’t tell M’s,” Emma muttered. “At least not yet. Let me, I mean, us, let us process this first, ok?”

“Process?” “I told him about Neal.” “What?” “Well, kind of,” Emma corrected and Ruby lowered her eyebrows. “I kind of told him about Neal.” “How do you kind of tell someone about the guy who set you up for his fall and then made no attempts to contact you again even when you’re a world famous chef?” “I’m not world famous.” “City famous, at least. Your face is on a bus, Emma.” “Yeah, don’t remind me.” “How?” Ruby repeated.

“I was trying to explain why.” “Why you ditched him at the party? “Did everybody know that? I was trying to be covert.” “You didn’t do a very good job.” Ruby grinned at her, one side of her mouth pulling up into a smile and Emma resisted the urge to slide down the side of the wall she was leaning against. She was having far too many emotional conversations in hallways.

She was certain she was skewing the average at this point.

“I’ve got to go make sure I’m not shiny,” Emma said and Ruby rolled her eyes again.

“Are you ok?” Ruby asked, voice falling into that serious tone Emma had been trying to avoid in the middle of the hallway. “For real?” “Fine. Better,” Emma promised.

“Just tell me one thing.” “Yeah?” “Were you as close to actually ripping each other’s clothes off in the middle of the kitchen as it looked like or was that just some sort of illusion?” Emma grinned, walking down the hallway back towards hair and makeup. “I don’t kiss and tell,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder as Ruby’s whole body sagged with disappointment.

“I shouldn’t have announced myself so early,” Ruby shouted back.

“And that wouldn’t have been weird at all.” Emma didn’t say anything else – just sank into the makeup chair and let them do whatever to her face and her hair and tried not to actually start to think.

It didn’t work.

She started to think and question and she couldn’t quite believe she actually told Killian about Neal. Or kind of about Neal.

She hadn’t actually told him about Neal.

And she was back at square one of nervous and anxious and she should have told Killian the whole story. But she didn’t want him to look at her like some kind of felon – which the United States government would have been able to confirm for him fairly easily.

Emma had gotten pretty good at keeping secrets – compartmentalizing everything and finding a place for every one of her emotions so they all fit in a neat little line – but as soon as Killian Jones smiled at her, she found herself wanting to talk and explain and, maybe, tell him every single thought that had ever passed through her mind.

And that, unfortunately, included her prison record.

She needed to start cooking.

She needed to get something in her hands and something in an oven and she needed to refocus her energy on something that wasn’t how they might have actually been close to ripping each other’s clothes off in the middle of the kitchen.

And how much she might have wanted him to.  

“Two minutes, Emma.”

She nearly fell off the chair, feet skidding across the floor and Belle smiled at her, nodding once before she leaned back around the door frame and, presumably, got to the set on time.

They had to do another dramatic, seemingly unnecessary walk-in – moving onto the set in some kind of ridiculous slow motion so that it’d be able to matchup with the voiceover they’d insert in post. And then they were supposed to actually look at the camera and pose or something that made Emma’s stomach clench and she knew she looked as absurd as she felt when she walked away from her mark to find Killian laughing softly in front of his station.

“Incredibly menacing, Swan,” he muttered, fingers tapping on the counter. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, smirk plastered on his face and Emma was positive she heard Belle laugh softly on his left side.

“I figured it was,” Emma shot back. “I’m super scary and super intimidating, you know.” He turned his entire head to look at her, arms crossing over his chest and twisting the chef’s jacket they were all required to wear. “Something like that,” Killian said and Emma couldn’t breathe.

Regina was giving them instructions – explaining how Chopped worked like Emma hadn’t spent her entire weekend camped out in front of the TV while her twelve-year-old kid came up with a detailed strategy for her – and Emma wasn’t listening at all. Killian rocked forward, almost leaning towards her out of instinct, smiling that stupid, nervous, genuine smile and she wanted to kiss him.

Again.

They’d somehow missed all of the instructions and the introductions and Sidney was talking about the first challenge and using all the ingredients in the basket. “Did you hear anything he said?” Killian asked, eyes practically cutting through Emma.

She shook her head.

“Ah, well, at least we’re on even footing then.” And it felt like it was true.

She hadn’t told him everything about Neal, but she’d explained enough and she could do this . She could believe him and listen to him and support him.

He’d told her about Liam, about the Navy and she knew there was more to it – more to leaving and ending up with The Jolly and losing his hand, but Emma could wait. She would wait. She wouldn’t run away.

Because she wanted and, for the first time in a long time, Emma was going to make sure she got what she wanted.

Someone yelled go from out-of-frame and Emma swung open the top of the basket, Henry’s strategy ringing in her ears and Killian’s smile in front of her eyes and, God, what was that? “Is that cereal?” Emma mumbled.

Killian grunted next to her and Graham looked thrilled – it might have had something to do with the veal that also existed in the basket. Emma’s mind raced. She yanked the ingredients out of the basket, tossing the stupid thing underneath her station and staring at the counter and the food.

Strategy.

She had a strategy.

Repurpose everything. Do not use the cereal as decoration on the plate.

“You got a plan yet, Swan?” Killian asked and her head snapped towards him, slightly surprised by the sudden return to the game .

“I had a plan before I even walked into the office this morning,” she snapped, jogging around her station towards the pantry.

He was behind her – she could feel him looking over her head towards the shelves of spices in front of her and Emma knew he’d understood the double entendre of her sentence. Good. Even footing.

And mutually open books.

Or whatever sort of metaphor she could use.

Killian’s hand brushed over her waist and Emma bit her lip tightly, determined to not actually make a sound. They were well out of the view of the cameras and both Belle and Graham were already doing something at their station, but Emma’s stomach leapt anyway and her heart thudded painfully against the inside of her ribcage.

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning forward so her back arched into his chest and Emma appreciated the way he inhaled sharply through his nose. She grabbed garlic cloves and bobbed slightly on her feet, looking for thyme and she hoped the pan she’d left on the stove before she moved towards the incredibly well-stocked pantry was actually hot by the time she got back.

“I am trying to find appropriate spices,” Killian muttered in her ear, leaning his hand over her to grab the thyme.

“Ah! I was looking for that.” “You’ve got to move faster, love.” “Not all of us just instinctively know where to find the thyme on kitchen sets that aren’t our own.” “Robin stocked this,” he said, moving away from her back and that shouldn’t have been nearly as disappointing as it was.

“What?” “You’re wasting time, Swan.” “I am curious.” “Robin works for the network too, you know.” “I didn’t.” “For someone who claims to be as curious as you, you don’t ask many questions,” Killian laughed, turning her around and, jeez, he was walking her back towards the wall. And further away from the camera.

“I’ve had a few other things on my mind,” Emma mumbled, back bumping up against the wall and shaking the spices behind her.

“That so?” His hand was back on her waist, thumb moving up and down across her t-shirt and there was no way they could both lose this opening round, could they? They only chopped one person. She’d learned that during the weekend marathon.

God, she hoped the pan wasn’t actually on fire at this point.

Emma draped one arm over his shoulder – moving so it didn’t get twisted in between them – and she couldn’t seem to keep her fingers out of his hair. And he didn’t seem to mind all that much either.

“You know it is,” she said. “Now, come on Jones, answer my question.” His eyes flashed – all blue and emotional and staring straight at her. “Robin works as a supplier for the network, stocks all the sets and makes sure there’s food and everything. I helped him with the spice rack a couple of days ago.” “That seems like cheating.” He grinned at her, hand tightening until it pushed the shirt away and fingers hit skin and maybe Emma was the one on fire – not her pan. “Pirate,” he mumbled, head dropping against her ear and doing something absurd with his mouth.

“That was only on Halloween.” “Ah, fair point, Swan.” He kissed along her jaw and his hand moved across her back and Emma couldn’t imagine there was much time left in this round. She was surprised someone hadn’t come looking for them.

She was grateful someone hadn’t come looking for them.

“We have to cook,” she mumbled.

“We will.” “Now? Because now might be a good idea.”

“You want to move?” Killian pulled her closer against him, hips hitting on hips and both of them groaned softly and then he was kissing her again – lips moving across hers in a kind of rhythm that seemed to only exist in movies.

And now in the back corner of the Chopped studio pantry.

“I also don’t want to lose,” Emma said – she didn’t move.

“Neither do I.” “Then we should probably cook.” He nodded slowly, eyes doing that thing again and he kissed her again, holding the thyme out in front him. “Take it, Swan,” he said softly. “I did cheat, after all.” “Technicality.” “Ah, don’t let me off the hook that easily. Take the spices.” He shook the container slightly and Emma wrapped her hand around it as he smiled encouragingly at her. “And go make your appetizer.” “Aye aye.” She heard him laugh softly behind her as she jogged back towards her station. The pan wasn’t on fire. That seemed like a positive.

Emma glanced up at the clock – fifteen minutes. She had time.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Graham asked, glancing at her as Emma tossed the venison on the now-scalding-hot pan and shaking the container of thyme over the meat quickly.

“I had to get spices. Took awhile to figure out where everything was.” Graham stared at her speculatively, shaking the pan in front of him and only glancing away when he heard Killian return to his station. And then he nodded, mouth opened in something Emma was certain was supposed to be understanding, but only seemed a bit judgemental. “Oh,” he said slowly, putting the pan back on the the stove and turning around to the counter. “Got it.” “Got what?” Emma asked, cutting into the pita bread and tossing it onto a cookie sheet in front of her. “Exactly?” “You and him, huh?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “If you say so, Emma.” “I think I just did.”

Graham made a face, eyebrows jumping up his forehead as he looked back over his shoulder at his soon-to-be-seared veal and Emma refocused her energy on the gooseberry preserves and knockoff Fruit Loops in front of her.

Sauce.

She could make sauce.

And repurpose ingredients. Done and done.

She grabbed a bowl underneath her station, dumping out the preserves and pouring the cereal into a food processor, ignoring the way the sound of the machine grated on her suddenly fraying nerves. Sydney yelled five minutes and Emma took a deep breath, chancing a glance at Killian who looked the picture of calm, focused energy next to her. Of course.

She needed to keep cooking. If she kept cooking she couldn’t think and couldn’t slightly freak out at the idea that they were that obvious and people would eventually know she wanted to make out with one of the network all-stars.

“Is that a sauce, Swan?” Killian asked, glancing over her station with a smile on his face. “Good idea.” “I don’t need your compliments.” “I have no doubt, love, but I’m giving them nonetheless. And your veal’s about to burn.” Emma groaned, spinning back towards the pan and forcing a spatula underneath the meat with, what appeared to be, just minutes to spare. She grabbed a towel, throwing into on the counter and put the veal down quickly, yanking open the front of the oven and grabbing the now-toasted pita bread before jogging towards the back corner of the studio to grab a small stack of plates.

“You seem a little bit stressed, love,” he said not two moments later, crowding into her space again and nearly making her drop the the dishes she had in her hands.

“And you are distracting me.” “Why do you think that is?” “Maybe because you won’t shut up.” “I can think of plenty of other ways to ensure that I do.” Emma rolled her head to the side, eyes wide with – maybe – frustration, but mostly she was just charmed. He was charming and flirting with her and he wanted her to keep making out with him in the pantry on the Chopped set.

“Plate your food,” Emma muttered, not able to quite keep the smile off her face.

“Of course, love. You’ll find I’m very good at following directions.” Emma pressed her lips together tightly, breathing slowly through her nose and staring at the stupid smirk carved on his face. She didn’t say anything – couldn’t come up with anything else if she tried – and he moved his eyebrows, widening his eyes as she let out a quiet humpf and walked back to her station.

Ok. Plate. Plating. She could plate. She could plate in her sleep.

And plating in her sleep might actually have been easier than plating with Killian Jones smirking at her a few feet away.

Pita first, veal next and, fuck, she needed to mix the sauce still.

Emma yanked the top off the food processor, dumping the cereal mixture – flour – into the preserves and squeezing a lemon on top, reaching across the station to grab a wooden spoon she couldn’t remember putting there. She stirred the thing through the mixture quickly and leaning the bowl against her hip as she tried to figure out if there was something else she could add to make this better.

It had to be better.

It needed to be perfect.

“Looks good, Swan,” Killian said, eyes darting back to her plates. “As per usual.” “Needs something else.” “Like?” “Butter!”

Killian laughed as Emma ran towards the refrigerator on the other side of the studio, nearly yanking the door of the front as she swung it open and she wasn’t entirely certain she’d actually closed the thing when she grabbed the butter and sprinted back to her station.

She grabbed brown sugar off a shelf and tossed the butter back on the pan – somehow still hot and maybe she should have considered turning the oven down at some point – whisking in the sugar and trying to ignore Sydney’s countdown a few feet away.

“You better hurry, Swan.” “Shut up.” “I’m just saying.” “Shut up.”

She closed her eyes as she finished stirring, spinning on her heels and grabbing a spoon to drizzle whatever she’d just made over the top of the veal and the pitas and she could feel Killian’s eyes watching her.

It didn’t matter.

Emma had found the zone.

Or something less ridiculous sounding.

She’d gone to culinary school, had practically grown up in a kitchen, but she’d found herself in restaurants and on the line and coming up with that one thing that would make the difference in a meal.

It’s what got her on TV in the first place.

Emma grabbed another spoon – wondering if Robin stocked the silverware as well – grabbing the other sauce she’d made and moving it across the side of the plate. Repurposed ingredients also serving as decoration.

That was a bona fide win.

Sydney yelled time and Emma exhaled loudly, staring down at her plate with a grin and a sense of pride she hadn’t felt since she worked in a restaurant – or since she’d chopped up vegetables for twenty minutes in The Jolly.

“Looks good, Swan,” Killian said as they walked to their marks in front of the judging table. “The butter was a smart choice.” “I can’t believe I almost forgot it.” “But you didn’t.” “That is true,” Emma smiled. “What did you make?” “You’ll have to wait and see.” “Are you teasing me?” “I would never.” He absolutely would. And he was – eyes darting between her and the table in front of them, small smile on his face proving himself wrong in approximately two seconds.

Sydney stepped towards his mark and spoke towards the camera – rehashing the basket ingredients and instructions Emma hadn’t been listening to before and introduced the judges and, somehow, Tink was sitting in front of them again, eyes trained on Killian.

And she was jealous.

She was actually jealous.

She didn’t have anything to be jealous of.

Did she?”

Maybe. If middle-of-filming and makeouts in the pantry were any indication. Or pre-show makeouts on top of his station. Or deep, dark, emotional revelations that showed just how similar they might be.

But they had never used the word date the first time and they hadn’t gotten to defining anything and maybe they wouldn’t ever – Emma didn’t need a definition. She shouldn’t expect a definition. She’d been the one who’d run away after all.

She just wished Tink would stop looking at Killian like that.

Belle had forgotten an ingredient and Emma tried to stand up a bit straighter as they moved on to Killian’s dish.

He’d made tacos – appetizer tacos and, somehow, he’d managed to make guacamole. Emma hadn’t even realized and he’d been standing ten feet away from her for the last thirty minutes.

Tink gushed about the food for what felt like several hours and Emma knew Killian kept looking at her. She bit her lip and refused to tug on the end of her hair and, then, they were talking about her food and they liked it and even Tink agreed the butter was a necessity.

Graham’s was perfect.

Of course it was.

He probably skinned the deer himself before they filled the basket with ingredients that morning. He grinned at Emma while he was showered with compliments from all three chefs, talking about how well he cooked the meat and seared it and the salad he made was fantastic and Emma couldn’t believe he made salad.

He was supposed to be a woodsman. Or something.

They didn’t talk about the food on that one date. And that should have been enough of a warning sign.

They chopped Belle – forgetting ingredients was a death sentence, Emma learned during the weekend marathon – and Graham grinned at her again as he glanced towards the side of the studio, intent on getting something to drink before they moved into the main course round. “Smells good, Emma,” he said softly, the genuine smile on his face making Emma feel a bit guilty for thinking he’d skinned a deer or something.

He was just a nice guy.

Who knew how to cook. And Emma was totally jealous of the way Tink kept talking to Killian about tacos.

“Thanks,” she said and Graham reached out to squeeze her forearm quickly. “You want anything to drink?”

“No,” Emma shook her head. “I’m good for now. But thanks.” Graham nodded and Emma heard footsteps behind her and a hand on her back like there was a magnet there. “What was that?” Killian asked.

“What was what?” Emma countered, turning around and taking a step away from him as his hand dropped back, unceremoniously, to his side.

“You and the huntsman or whatever.”

“What?” “Was he talking about your food?” “On the cooking show we’re both on? Yes.” Killian’s mouth pressed together tightly and stuck his hands in his pockets as he rolled back on his heels. “Of course.” “What about you? Tink sample anymore of your food?” He looked back up to her quickly, one side of that still-pressed-together-mouth tilting up. “What?” “She seemed to come up with some previously unformed adjectives to describe just how much she loved your guacamole.” “That’s because I make very good guacamole, Swan.” “Of course,” she said, repeating his words back.

“Would you like to try it as well? It’s not my best, time constraints down the stretch kind of hurt, but it’s pretty good all things considered.” “All things considered?” “What’s gotten into you, Swan?”

He took a step back, leaning against the judging table – now abandoned as everyone else on the entire set seemed more interested in the catering table on the other side of the room – and grabbed the plate of Emma’s food, sticking the pita into the fruit sauce she made, nodding as he ate.

“Nothing,” Emma said quickly – too quickly to bely any sort of doubt.

Killian grinned at her, eyebrows pulled low. “You’re a terrible liar.” “I am a fantastic liar.” “Not to me you’re not. What’s going on? You seemed fine before.”

“Yeah, well, I was distracted before.” “By me?”

“Maybe.” He laughed, grabbing another piece of pita and practically dragging it across the plate, sweeping up the last bit of sauce before he stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. “You distract a lot of people?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.” “I mean Tink had a lot of adjectives to share on guacamole that she seemed awfully familiar with. And I’m just wondering how often you make guacamole.” “Rarely,” he said, putting the plate back down next to him and staring at her. “And not for a very long time.”

Emma exhaled loudly, tugging on her hair and Killian’s eyes followed the movement of her hands. “No?” she asked, wondering how she’d ended up putting the weight of the world into one word and two letters.

A few hours ago she’d been sitting on her couch trying to rationalize letting Henry text Killian and, now, she was wondering what this was and acting like some sort of jealous fifteen-year-old whose date danced with someone else at homecoming.

“No,” Killian repeated, sliding off the table and taking two steps towards her.

“Why?” “Are we still talking about guacamole?” “I don’t think so.” Killian took a deep breath and grinned at her, hand moving up and down Emma’s arm quickly. “You asked me why?” Emma nodded. “Because I didn’t believe in it. Any of it. And I was angry and frustrated and all I had was the food. So I focused on the food and only the food and tried to tell myself I wasn’t disappointed with the way things had turned out.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Yeah?” “I couldn’t tell you the last time I had guacamole.” He laughed loudly, drawing a few glances from the crowd of people on the other side of the room and Killian dropped his hand away from Emma. “You want some?” he asked, eyes ridiculously blue when he looked at her.

“Are we talking about guacamole again? I’ve lost track of the metaphor.” “Yes and also no. But there is actually well-made guacamole behind me and I did eat your food, so it only seems fair.”

“Give me a taco.” He beamed at her, turning around and grabbing the plate behind him. Emma grabbed one of the mini-tacos and bit down and jeez he was good at cooking. “This is ridiculously good. I can’t believe you taught yourself how to cook.” “I told you, Swan, I just kind of stumbled into some good luck. Then and now.” “Is that what this is? Good luck.” “Guess it depends.” “On?” “On you forgiving some completely irrational jealousy,” he said softly, putting the plate back down behind him.

“That makes two of us,” Emma repeated.

“Even footing, right?” “Exactly that.”

Killian nodded, glancing over Emma’s head quickly to make sure just about everyone else in the room was occupied before ducking his head to kiss her. “I’m glad we cleared that up, love,” he said and his voice actually sounded husky and she’d never used that word before in her entire life.

“I’m glad you made the guacamole again.” He grinned at her and kissed her again, hand tightening around her arm and Emma kept her feet planted on the ground so she wouldn’t puller herself against him. She could hear footsteps moving again and knew the break was over and both of them took a step back, small smiles on their faces.

They hadn’t defined it – not officially – and Emma was still trying to figure out the metaphor completely, but she was happy.

And she had a main course to cook.

“I’m sorry, what are these?”

“Dragon’s tongue beans.”

“And those are what exactly?” “You’re the chef,” Sydney said patiently. Or at least trying to sound patient. They were, after all, on camera. “You tell me.” “I have no idea what these are.” Killian glanced down at the basket, trying to push his frustration into his feet and away from his face. On camera. They were on camera. And he could hear Emma’s soft laughter next to him, knew she was smiling and that set him on a totally different path of pushing emotions off his face.

They were on camera.

“There are other ingredients in the basket,” Sydney pointed out and Killian shot him a glare, leaning across his station and avoiding Emma’s gaze.

“Thank you Sydney,” he said, pausing in between each word and trying to keep his voice even. “I realize that there are other ingredients in the basket.” “And you know what those ones are?” “I do.” And he did.

And he knew what to do with them – goat chops, cinnamon schnapps and dark chocolate. That part was easy.

He had the whole thing planned already – sear the goat, mix the chocolate and bread crumbs to make a crust, add more chocolate to the schnapps to make a sauce and, then, figure out what exactly dragon tongues beans were.

And why they sounded absolutely disgusting.

Sydney started counting down and announcing the next round had started and Killian was positive the frustration was obvious on his face. Fuck. He was still on camera. And he still had no idea what dragon tongue beans were.

Killian ran his hand through his hair – Graham moving towards the pantry out of the corner of his eye with a determination that proved he knew what dragon tongue beans were and Emma was twisting knobs on her stove and throwing butter into pans.

He hadn’t moved.

He should move.

He should cook something.

He shouldn’t feel completely useless because he didn’t know what dragon tongue beans were. God, that was the worst name in the entire world.

“You alright?” Emma muttered, glancing over her shoulder at him, while she held her pan above the stove, pouring the schnapps in and leaning back so her hair wouldn’t catch on fire.

“That was impressive, Swan.” “Didn’t answer my question.” “I’m fine.” “Sure.” “Fine.” Emma put the pan down on the stove, dumping the beans in with the schnapps and stared at him appraisingly, like she could read his mind or something. And he got the distinct feeling that, maybe, she could.

“Killian,” she sighed and her voice felt like pinpricks across his skin, making every single one of his nerves light up – or whatever it was that nerves did. He wasn’t into specifics. He just knew when she said his name he couldn’t think straight.

“I have no idea what these are,” he grumbled.

Emma grinned at him, taking a step into his station and glancing around to make sure they were actually being filmed. They were. Of course.

“They’re disgusting,” she said simply, working a soft laugh out of him and forcing some of the frustration he’d felt to ebb away just a bit. “But I was just going to make them as a side. Braised, butter, couple of spices. There’s not much else to do with them.”

Killian groaned, lips twisted on his face as he scuffed his foot along the floor of his station. There had to be something else to do with them. He grabbed one of the stupid things out of the bowl and bit down, trying to figure out what they even tasted like and if he could maybe make them taste better.

He couldn’t.

These were disgusting.

“These are awful,” he grimaced, swallowing slowly as he tried to ignore the flavor.

“Told you.” “Yeah, well, not all of us can be classically trained, love,” he said softly, eyes darting to a suddenly nervous-looking Emma. She took a step back towards her stove, shifting the pan a bit before turning to start chopping up the goat meat sitting on her counter.

And there it was – he had fallen back into unconfident asshole with relative ease. He was always kind of teetering right on the edge of it, but it constantly surprised Killian how simple it was for something to shake the bravado and the show.

Neither one of them said anything for what felt like days and Killian nearly cut into his prosthetic six different times while he diced an onion he thought might make the beans not taste quite as horrible. He moved quickly – well aware of the time and Sydney’s pacing in front of the judging table and Graham’s ridiculous self-confidence with yet another gamey meat in the basket.

Killian was going to have a long conversation with Robin about that later – or maybe not. If he still went to dinner with Emma and her family. If she still wanted him to.

He was a stupid asshole.

She was standing in front of her oven and the food smelled fantastic – again. And she was so focused, eyes narrowed at the pan in her hand, occasionally glancing up towards the clock in the corner of the studio.

Emma moved – her whole body shifting in what actually looked like muscle memory – as she twisted around, still holding the pan over the stove, to grab something off the top of her station and throw it into the mix.

“That was impressive, Swan,” Killian muttered softly, flipping the strips of goat meat on the grill he’d set up on top of his stove.

“You said that already.” “Doesn’t make it any less true.” She smiled at him and it felt like he could breathe again and Killian wondered when he’d settled into that – needing her to smile at him and, well, needing her.

It hadn’t snuck up on him. He’d realized it was happening and it was happening quickly and he was fairly positive he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

He didn’t want to try.

“What did you do with the beans?” she asked.

“Onion, chicken stock, vinegar.” Emma pressed her mouth together, lower lip jutting out slightly in something that vaguely appeared to look like impressed.  Killian smiled, raising his eyebrows as he moved around her, hand drifting across her back as he walked to the corner of the studio to grab plates.

He could hear her behind him – those sneakers announcing her arrival wherever she went – and she stood next him, staring at the stack of dishes and options, fingers tugging on the bottom of her hair before she pushed it over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

And he could practically hear her smile.

“It’s ok.” “It’s not, but I appreciate the effort to understand. I don’t like not knowing something. Ever. And it’s pretty easy for me to get frustrated when I don’t. Especially when it comes to the food. Stick around, Swan, and you’ll realize I’m pretty good at wallowing just a bit.” Emma rocked back on her feet for a moment before reaching forward to grab a stack of plates in front of her, resting them on her hip and turning to look at him. She stared at him for half a moment and then reached out and brushed her hands over his hand – his left hand – and smiled slowly, the movement stretching across her face and straight through him.

“I’d like that,” she said and he tilted his head, eyes flashing up towards hers.

“Watching me wallow?” “No,” she laughed softly. “Sticking around.” And he hadn’t expected that.

“I’d like that too.” “Good.”

They were absolutely being filmed. Emma’s fingers were still wrapped around his hand and he could hear Sydney yell something about five minutes from his spot in front of the judge’s table and neither one of them moved.

“You guys are painfully obvious,” Graham muttered, stepping into the corner with a smile on his face. “You realize you’re on camera.” “Shut up Humbert,” Emma mumbled, readjusting the pile of plates against her hips. She glanced up at Killian, nervous energy nearly radiating off of her and they probably should have talked more before they started filming.

They’d been too busy – how had Ruby put it? – trying to rip each other’s clothes off in the middle of the studio kitchen. It didn’t seem like a bad problem to have, but it did kind of beg the question of establishing some sort of definition about what was happening here.

Or not happening.

Or maybe happening at Granny’s Diner that night.

“I’m just saying,” Graham said, laughing as he leaned around Emma to grab a small stack of bowls just above her head, “there are cameras everywhere and the two of you are very bad at making this not look like something.” “And what do you think that something is?” Killian asked – falling into the kind of overprotective mode that would be able to rival even David Nolan as quickly as he’d fallen into asshole a few minutes before.

Graham laughed again and Emma rolled her eyes as Sydney approached the three of them – a cameraman just a few feet away from him. “What’s going on over here?” he asked, host voice crashing against Killian’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. “Some sort of plating war council?” “A war council?” Killian repeated, grabbing plates and taking a step away from Emma so his hand wouldn’t find its way back to her shirt or her neck or her waist. “Seems a little West Side Story doesn’t it?” “I’m not snapping my fingers,” Graham added. “And, plus, it seems Jones has already won the first rumble. Or whatever.” Emma’s entire body sagged when she rolled her eyes and groaned and Killian couldn’t stop the smile on his face when she moved. “Go plate your food, Humbert,” she muttered, voice dangerously low and she didn’t need Killian to protect her – she was doing perfectly fine all on her own.

Graham’s eyes darted between Emma and Killian quickly, but he stood up a little straighter when the camera moved on him, plastering a smile on his face. “Absolutely,” he said. “Time keeps on ticking and all that.”

“Oh my God,” Emma groaned and Killian chuckled under his breath.

Sydney and the camera had followed Graham back to his station – suddenly less interested now that their apparent war council had ceased to exist – and Killian’s fingers were wrapped around Emma’s again as soon as he realized they weren’t being filmed.

“You alright, love?” She nodded slowly, thumb tracing a pattern over the side of his wrist. “I’ve got to plate my food.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Emma pulled her hand back to her side, wrapping her fingers around the plates and moving back to her station quickly, head pointed in front of her and that determination Killian had been so impressed by just a few minutes before was obvious in every single step she took.

Sydney was counting down and Killian ignored him, plating as quickly and cleanly as he could, grabbing a towel from the corner of the station to swipe along the edge of each plate, tossing it back over his shoulder when the host shouted time .

He took a step back, shoulders heaving slightly as he glanced down at the food.

He hoped the beans didn’t taste disgusting.

The three of them walked towards judging, plates of their food already sitting at the table and Sydney standing on his mark with his arms crossed over his chest.

And it didn’t go too bad.

The beans, apparently, weren’t a complete disaster and the meat was cooked well and the plating was gorgeous . He felt good.

And then they got to Emma’s.

And he felt like shit.

They hated it. They hated the meat and the plating and the fucking dragon tongue beans,  telling her she hadn’t done anything except cook them and put them on the plate.

Emma took a deep breath next to him, tugging on her hair and biting her lip at the same time – and he couldn’t put his hand on her back, couldn’t do anything because they were on camera and his whole body felt like it flipped at the sight of her.

She was a mix of surprise and disappointment and her face barely even moved when they told her she’d been chopped.