Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Emma side-eyed a baby stroller—no, a double-wide monstrosity—as it was shoved down the aisle between two rows of bookshelves, its plastic wheels scraping skinny spines until it stopped at “DIS” (that is, the Disney section). Excited screeches erupted from the pint-sized occupants. With the aisle effectively blocked, and her left eardrum possibly ruptured, Emma figured now was as good a time as any to take her break, and staged a tactical retreat. She pasted on a pleasant smile, backing out of the aisle as if it had been her intention all along, and pulled her cart of returned books with her while the Screaming Wonders debated between Frozen or Tangled picture books.

As soon as the stacks blocked her from view, though, Emma sighed in frustration.

She liked the job, really. Most of the time the patrons kept to the reading chairs or study carrels, leaving her to sort, straighten and shelve in relative quiet; monotonous, yes, but it gave her time to think. (Think—the exact thing she had avoided doing for the last ten months—but a broken lease never came with a broken heart discount and work was work.)

All that said, a public library plus kids meant forts built out of the Berenstain Bears and Mary Margaret's story time events attracted them like Snow White attracted forest critters. Judging by the rising noise level in the children's end of the library, tonight's reading of Beauty and the Beast promised to draw quite the crowd (and leave quite the proverbial literary wreckage).

The tell-tale click-clack of obscenely high heels broke Emma's concentration and she stopped to find Belle striding toward her from the reference desk.

"Emma," the brunette said softly, keeping up the pretense of a 'library voice' even as the toddlers in the aisle over shrieked. "Mary Margaret just called in sick so I have to take over her story time, only I have a hold list a mile long and now no time to fill it. Would you mind?" she asked, offering up a small stack of papers.

Holds. Not her favorite. Scurrying all over the building to find books for patrons who couldn't come in and look for themselves--and half of them neglect to even pick them up.

Over Belle's shoulder, Emma spotted another mega-stroller—this one a four-seater—rolling in through the main door. She snatched the papers from the young librarian with a rushed, "Sure".

Belle beamed. "I've been advising a professor on some research titles for a book he's writing. They're all for him, actually. You just need to pull the holds and then process them if he turns up before I'm done."

Emma paged through the list, seeing only hours of bending and crouching.

When she looked up again, Belle was shepherding kids down the aisle toward the large wooden rocking chair and braided rug that served as their story time corner. Sliding her loaded cart into a free spot at the end of a shelving unit, Emma grabbed an empty from the next stack as she made her way across the library, leaving the squeals behind her. She pulled her cart into the back end of the towering adult non-fiction stacks, then glanced at the rows and rows of spines before her, breathing the first call number on her list as she walked.

"Nine-ten-point-four-five, nine-ten-point-four-five…"

Finding a healthy stock of the number, Emma stopped and picked up and old tome with a spine so worn and faded, she had to flip open the cover to check the title.

On paper, browning with age and smelling faintly of time itself, boldly scrawled A General History of the Robberies & Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates.

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Several dozen titles sat on Emma's cart, all with some reference, however scant, to piracy (the high-seas flavor, of course). Not just non-fiction history, either, but (because Belle's information science abilities bordered on the arcane) fiction literature, biography, poetry, and even nautical phraseology. She'd included a few movies, too, which was why Emma now lay in the AV section, flattened against dated orange carpet, trying to coax out a rogue DVD case that had slipped down a slight gap between two shelving units. She caught it, just barely, with the tip of a finger and cautiously guided it (and a few clumps of dust) free.

Pulling herself into a cross-legged position, Emma flipped the case over to find an old Hollywood action-poster cover with a heroic swordsman, his billowing shirt revealing biologically inaccurate abs.

"Need a hand, love?"

Emma eyed the figure next to her, trailing up dark wash jeans to a V-neck far too deep for the presence of impressionable children. Bright eyes shone down at her through dark strands mussed by winter's whipping winds. His black leather jacket hung off his shoulders—the building's overactive furnace making anything more than a swimsuit brutally uncomfortable despite the swirling snow outside—so when he extended a hand in invitation, she caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm that might as well have read "DANGER WILL ROBINSON".

After all, she knew the type. Devastatingly handsome and they know it. Luring her in with charm and puppy eyes and promises that there's only her, no one else, until she finally looks up and it's been ten years and there's always, always someone else.

"I'm fine, thanks," she huffed back, pointedly not taking his hand as she leaned against the shelf to hoist herself up. He shrugged in deference until she was halfway up, then deftly nipped the DVD out of her other hand.

"Fancy a good pirate, do you?" he asked, feigning innocence as he inspected the cover.

Had she been anywhere but where she was, Emma might have just as innocently elbowed him upside the jaw. Instead, she reminded herself that clocking a patron would not look good on her application for promotion to full-time circulation desk (with its considerable pay increase) and instead summoned up her "best customer service smile". She was about to launch into a patronizingly apologetic spiel about reserved materials (and personal space) when he continued.

"Captain Blood. A classic. The classic, really. Launched a whole career, if not a whole genre—Errol Flynn, swashbuckling hero, fighting corrupt crowns, winning the heart of a fair damsel."

Emma slumped involuntarily. Her "best customer service smile" already sore at the corners.

He was not.

"Professor Jones?"

"Ah, you've heard of me," he replied, plopping the DVD onto her cart.

A hot English teacher. Weren't there laws against that?

"Killian Jones, though my students have a more colorful moniker—Hook."

He grinned like she was supposed to catch some kind of inside joke. She didn't.

"Because of the pirate thing?" she asked.

His smile faltered slightly, but whatever it was that confused him, he seemed decided to ignore.

"Yes, well, I can't really blame them. Creative writers and all that. Shall I wait for Miss French? She seems duly occupied."

He motioned to the story corner, where Belle was holding open her storybook for the kids to inspect a picture of the dreaded Beast dancing.

"No, I can check you out."

She was already groaning inwardly before the unintentional entendre lifted his eyebrow to his hairline. She avidly refused to make eye contact after that, guiding him wordlessly to the check-out desk, where she scanned the books through the system so fast, the beeps could have been her heart monitor. he rocked back and forth on his heels like time held no meaning to him.

As she stuffed the last of the books into canvas totes, he slipped the coat off his shoulders, twirled it around and fluidly slipped his arms into the sleeves. A glint of silver caught her eye, she thought it was a watch at first, but no, as his sleeve shifted up his arm, an actual hook popped out of the other end instead of a hand. A prosthetic hook, of course; a silvery, rounded tine attached to a brace at his wrist, with a little thumb-like gripping apparatus. He slipped the round of the hook through the bag straps and, heaving them over his shoulder, headed through the maze of hovering parents for the exit.

He had pushed open the doors before Emma realized she was still staring and she could just see the HR rep tasked with disability-sensitivity training whacking her over the head with the policy manual.

But by the way he turned his head and winked, Professor Killian Jones didn't mind her stare at all.

Chapter Text

She basically owed her life to Mary Margaret.

Not only had her referral landed Emma the library gig, but her love-at-first-date romance (and subsequent Pinterest perfect wedding) allowed Emma to take over Mary Margaret's share of a lease barely walking distance from work. Even the sparse furniture in her bedroom really belonged to Mary Margaret. Emma hadn't brought much from Tallahassee—hadn't wanted much from Tallahassee—and she'd been too broke (and broken hearted) to think much about nightstands or bedframes, which was why her mattress lay on the floor next to an intricately carved wardrobe that apparently couldn't fit out of the door with a magic wand.

In short, Mary Margaret had given her a job, a place to stay, and enough closet space to make her sob with the beauty of it all.

And her cold.

Feeling like she'd swallowed a full cup of thumbtacks, Emma pulled her comforter over her head and groaned.

At a knock at the door, Ruby, the inherited roommate, stuck her head in.

"I have to head back to the diner, need anything before I go?"

"Just to sleep for a thousand years."

"Sorry, no spinning wheels here, you'll have to make do with NyQuil" Ruby replied, digging through a canvas bag at her side. "I haven't been shopping in a while, so I ran out for some tea, cough drops and, of course, cute socks."

She held up a few pairs of fuzzy socks covered in various breeds of puppies.

Make that Ruby the ravishingly beautiful God-send of a roommate.

"This thing better work out with Mary Margaret and David," Emma replied, "'cause I'm not giving you back in a divorce."

Ruby smiled and dropped the bag on a rickety little bookshelf Emma used as a shoe caddy. "There's ramen in the pantry if you get hungry, but I'll see if I can't bring home a few gallons of Granny's good stuff. Help yourself to any of my DVDs, if you get bored."

With that, Ruby dashed off in a whirl of motion that Emma's aching joints envied. It took her twenty minutes to psych herself up enough just to wrap the comforter around her and shuffle into the kitchenette. After some dizzied swaying, unsteady searching through still unfamiliar cabinets, and just a little bit of whimpering at the injustices of thermodynamics, she brought a pot of water to boil and dropped in the little cake of nutritionally void noodles.

While Mary Margaret had left most of her bedroom behind, she'd taken the lion's share of the common furniture, leaving the girls to make do with an Ikea entertainment center, a flat screen, and a cheapo Walmart futon—a veteran of Ruby's college days—that had long since lost its will to live.

Inspecting the DVD shelf while the ramen cooked, Emma noted Ruby's movie tastes ranged from Old Hollywood to Classic Horror to Modern Slasher. The latter two categories she ruled out in favor of preserving whatever appetite she had left. Tapping along the "C's" to see if Ruby had Casablanca, Emma landed on a familiar case.

Of course Ruby owned Captain Blood. (It made Errol Flynn's career, after all.)

She really should have skipped right by it, Professor Smirk be damned, but she was already getting woozy again, and her noodles were nearly ready and—oh, why not.

She slipped the disc into the DVD player, letting it play through while she filled her bowl and collapsed on the futon. The worn-out mattress flopped over her as she nestled down, cradling her like a hot dog.

The plot was pure silver screen cheese—a man enslaved for treason swears piratical vengeance against the dishonorable crown that burned him, only to fall head over heels for his enemy's daughter.

Emma rolled her eyes more than once while slurping her noodles. Hollywood.

Still, the glamor of it drew her in enough to forget about her burning throat and aching body. At the final swell of music, she was already drifting off, wind in her hair, a ship under her feet, and a captain at the helm, leather jacket whipping in the wind and guiding his ship with a heavy steel hook.

She cursed softly as sleep took her.

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It took three days and two gallons of Granny’s chicken soup to burn through her cold and Emma spent nigh every conscious moment marathoning Ruby’s collection of high-seas Hollywood, determined to exhaust this piratical flight of fancy. She figured it was like food cravings—Swedish fish, for example. Every once in a while she got massive cravings for the gummy fish and every time she bought the biggest bag in the store and every time she chowed down until her stomach tried to secede from the union and it’d be years before she could stand the sight of them again. Applying the same principle to pirates, she blew through DVD after DVD until she couldn’t close her eyes but to see swords and tri-cornered hats and peg legs and she felt a very physical need to get out of her own head.

Considering herself cured, she dumped the comforter back in her bedroom and grabbed a change of clothes. It crossed her mind as she hopped in the shower that, for the first time in recent memory, she hadn’t thought about Neal in days.

-0-

She strode into the library a full fifteen minutes early for her morning shift to find Belle re-decorating a bookcase display in the children’s section.

“Emma! Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Belle said, but Emma only stared at the eyepatch and bandana the woman taped onto a construction paper parrot. A caption balloon at its beak squawked “Reading is a real treasure”.

The man was his own infectious disease.

“We’re swimming in interlibrary loan requests,” Belle continued. “That last blizzard delayed two inbound deliveries—both finally showed up this morning. Are you okay to sort them out on your own?”

It struck her as odd that Belle should be particularly concerned. Their small town library rarely saw more than a few requests per month, they couldn’t be more than a handful of books behind.

“Of course,” Emma agreed, shirking off her coat as she headed for the back room. She stopped short at the doorway, coat dangling off one arm, when she saw stacks of transit holds on the back counter. More than one skull and crossbones grinned back at her from the overly-stickered dust jackets. “What did he do,” she groaned, “plunder the tri-county area?”

“Tri-state, actually.”

She looked around to find him leaning on the checkout desk, looking like he might sprout white wings at any moment, just to mess with her.

So that was the rush.

-0-

Despite her multitude of pointed suggestions that he find anywhere else to be while she scanned his items in, he insisted he was more than happy to wait. Thanks to the ancient circulation computer, now more yellow than grey, it took about half an eternity, made even longer by his poorly veiled attempts to lure her into conversation. And, despite her best efforts to appear completely unconcerned with whatever was passing through her hands at the moment, she caught one of the last titles in the stack as it beeped through the system—a DVD of the Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything—and some quirk of her brow must have given her away.

“That one’s essential to chapter seventeen,” he volunteered.

She frowned in confusion. “The crew is made up entirely of limbless vegetables.”

“I find it quite inspiring,” he chirped, taking that moment to wipe a smudge off his prosthetic hook.

Her eyes fell to his missing hand and she resisted the urge to slam her head into the desk.

He snickered at that. “I lost my hand, love, not my sense of humor.”

She quickly fed the last few titles through the system, trying to will back the blush she felt in her cheeks at getting reeled into conversation--hook, line and sinker. “So do you have a spy camera in here,” she replied, doing little to hide the edge in her voice, “or do you just have impeccable timing?”

“Neither,” he said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket for her to see.

Emma stared at a screen full of notifications from his library app. “We have an app? Half our computers still take floppy disks, how do we have an app?”

“I like the little sound it makes when I put something on hold,” he added and, to demonstrate, pulled up a title in the app, tapped a button, and a cheery pa-plink sound played as the app confirmed the hold.

Emma thought of the truckload of books she’d pulled in the last week and snorted, “Obviously.”

He pulled back the phone and she looked up to see him grinning, a genuine brightness to his face, and she realized, it was because he’d made her laugh.

She immediately snapped back to neutral and busied herself stuffing canvas bags full of his piratical nonsense and he turned his attention to his phone, but when she looked back up to hand them off, the shade of pink that burned from his cheekbones to the tip of his ears gave her pause.

Pa-plink, pa-plink went his phone.

Wait, was he fake holding items to keep from making eye contact?

The thought softened her and she added up the number of bags on the desk, subtracted his lack of hands, and doubted even with his hook and well-fed ego that he could realistically manage them on his own.

She took a breath and forced a professional “Need a han—help with these?”

He took two steps back without lifting his eyes from his phone, “Tempting, lass, but regrettably, I came prepared.”  He glanced back up, winked, and he was all smooth smiles and machismo again. He gestured at the bags with his hook. “Mr. Smee, if you please.”

A stocky man in a red knit cap, who had been browsing through a boating magazine in the periodicals section, set the issue down and scuttled over. He dutifully threw the straps of the heavy bags over his arms, leaving the lightest for the professor.

Pa-plink, Pa-plink, went the professor’s app and Emma momentarily entertained the idea of stabbing him with a golf pencil because of course the embarrassment was all part of the act.

Wasn't it?

Professor Jones swept the remaining bag off the counter and followed “Smee” out the door, his phone still pa-plinking away.

By the time Emma’s shift ended, he’d reserved the soundtracks to all four Pirates of the Caribbean movies and the entire discography of the Irish Rovers.

Emma left them for Belle to fill.

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The late winter snow melted into a sloppy spring before Emma scraped together the money to replenish her share of the apartment furnishings. Mary Margaret and Ruby happily volunteered David for the heavy lifting, and so the four of them spent the better part of a Saturday raiding thrift stores for second-hand (or, really, fifth-hand) furniture. Emma and David hefted the last of her haul into the back of his truck—an iron headboard that could probably double as an anchor in the event of a tornado.

Mary Margaret ran a hand over a large wooden trunk at the edge of the truck bed that Emma thought might work as a coffee table and blanket storage. “You’re really taking this pirate thing to heart.”

“What pirate thing?” replied Emma, easing the headboard against the side of the truck.

“Emma,” Ruby half-laughed, “it looks like it was pulled from a shipwreck on the sea floor.”

Emma hopped off of the back of the truck and put two hands on the trunk to pull it off. “If you don’t like it I’ll return it—“

“No, hey,” the rings on Ruby’s fingers clacked against the black wood as she clapped a hand on the trunk to stop her. “I like the aesthetic. It’s cute.”

A grin cracked across Mary Margaret’s face as she leaned into Ruby’s ear. “So is the guy that started this.”

“Guy? There’s a guy?”

“Oh come on, Mary Margaret,” Emma slumped her shoulders and groaned up to the sky. “I can like a thing without liking the guy who likes the thing.” She looked to David for backup but the dutiful husband threw up two hands in surrender and crawled into the cab of the truck.

Mary Margaret’s eyes narrowed and she peered through her lashes with all the subtlety of an air horn. “You don’t like him, or you don’t like like him?” she asked, and Emma thought maybe Mary Margaret should leave the pre-teen recommended reading list to Belle for a few months because seriously.

Ruby tugged at Emma’s arm and bounced in place. “What guy? I need details. Height, weight, twitter handle. Instagram, tell me there’s an Instagram involved.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s some privacy law that forbids me from answering that,” Emma snipped, extracting her arm.

Mary Margaret put gentle hands on Emma’s shoulders. “I’m teasing and you’re upset and I love you, so I’ll stop. But because I love you, I will also say this: whenever someone new shows up, you start to… well, you start to do this,” she waved a hand up and down at her. Emma was at a loss for what she meant until she felt the clutch of her own knuckles, the press of her nails into the flesh of her palms, and a tight tension between the blades of her shoulders. “You’ve been hurt and you have every right to be upset about that, and I get it, you’ve got this wall there to protect you, but,” Mary Margaret move her hands to cup Emma’s face, “Don’t let one man’s mistake ruin your life forever. That’s your past now, one bad chapter in a story that I have every hope will have a happy, happy ending.”

Emma smiled weakly.

“Look, I’m not trying to push you into anything. You’re ready when you’re ready. If you’re not into Professor Pirate, that’s his problem.”

“Thank you, Mary Margaret.”

Ruby’s brow furrowed. “Wait, ‘Professor Pirate’?”

“The guy,” Mary Margaret answered. “He’s a teacher at the university. Belle’s helping him research a book on pirates.”

“You don’t, by chance, mean Killian Jones,” asked Ruby as she flipped the tail gate up. “Tall, dark haired, an eye color illegal in at least seven states?”

Emma pointed a finger at Mary Margaret. “I should have your Master's degree revoked.”

Ruby moved to the side of the truck and opened the door to the extended cab. “It’s hardly a secret. He’s been trying to get that book off the ground for years.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah,” Ruby collapsed the front passenger’s seat and stood back. “He’s a regular at the diner.”

“Good,” Emma said as she climbed into the back seat. “Then you can tell Mary Margaret the kind of jerk he is.”

Ruby slid in after her and pulled the seat back so Mary Margaret could take the seat next to David. “Jerk? Maybe we’re not talking the same person after all. Hold on, I have video of him.”

“You have video of him?”

Ruby nodded and pulled her phone from her purse. “Every month the diner sponsors a talent night to raise money for the local boys’ and girls’ homes. Gives the kids a chance to showcase their talents. I run the social media for the diner, so sometimes I film clips to post to, you know, advertise and raise awareness.”

“And he shows up for that?”

“He runs it. Here, watch, this one’s from just last night.”

Ruby tapped fingers across her phone, then shoved it into Emma’s hands. A video played through, the lighting a little dark, but enough to glint off that un-mistakeable hook. He knelt in front of a little boy, wiping tears from the boy’s eyes with his good hand and saying something. The sounds of the diner drowned out his words, but the little boy nodded along. The kid climbed onto a stage with a violin and, after a few screechy warmups, hit the familiar, if shaky, first few notes to “Puff the Magic Dragon”. In no time, the audience began to clap and sing along and she saw the boy straighten with confidence. (Jones punched the air at the line, “Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name.”) The boy ended with a flourish, his last notes drowned in cheers. The little boy dashed off-stage and practically tackled Jones in a bear hug.

Emma handed the phone back with a half-hearted, “That’s cute,” her mind already swimming with excuses to explain the scene.

Maybe it was part of his job. Maybe it was good publicity for the university. Maybe he had a thing for Ruby, too, and played to the camera.

No, that’s not it, she felt more than thought, but the rev of the engine and the lurch of the old truck broke her out of her thoughts. Mary Margaret made some inquiry about Ruby’s current squeeze, Peter, and Emma threw herself into the banter and friendly chit-chat to avoid the exhausting analytics of her own mind.

-0-

Back at the apartment, Emma threw a new red plush blanket over the back of the futon. She’d hoped to pick out a couch, but options came slim in her price range (and squalor tolerance), so the futon lived to see another day. As a thank you, Ruby suggested a movie night to the newlyweds, who emphatically accepted, so Emma ordered a pizza while David and Mary Margaret disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up. Their buzzer rang just as Ruby pulled out her three movie recs for the guests to choose from and by the time she’d run down to grab the pizza and returned, Mary Margaret and David had settled onto the futon. Ruby, unwilling to test the futon’s weight limits, dragged a beanbag in from her bedroom and settled on the floor. Emma set the pizza box and a handful of paper plates on the coffee table trunk to the swell of the Star Wars theme. She pretended not to notice the copies of the Princess Bride and Robin William’s Hook that David quickly shoved aside to make room, but when she retreated with her cheese-laden plate, she caught a wink and a mouthed “You’re welcome” from the man.

She smiled her quiet thanks and settled into another find of the day—a red leather wingback that, aside from a few scuff marks, seemed foundationally sound—but her eyes just could not follow the yellow text as it scrolled into space. Instead, her mind wandered back to a hand wiping tears from orphan eyes. She’d grown up in the system too, could tell true gentleness from the resigned tolerance of a handler seeking some payout and Professor Jones had more gentleness in one hand that some of her foster parents had had in their entire bodies.

And maybe, just maybe, she like liked that.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Community Space

The end of March marked the library’s 30^th anniversary. To celebrate, Belle worked with some of the local businesses to throw a mini fair inside the library, with games, trivia contests, food, and even a costume parade, all based on a fairy tale theme: “Once Upon a Time”. Thus Emma arrived at work almost an hour early that Saturday to find volunteers scrambling around the building, hanging streamers and setting up event tables.

Almost as soon as Emma shouldered open the door, Belle, clipboard in hand and no less than three pencils stuck in her hair, shooed her into the ladies’ bathroom. “Mary Margaret has your costume, in there.”

Emma did as directed, pulling a small makeup bag out of her purse. Belle wanted staff dressed in costumes provided by the library, but with their meager budget, Emma mentally prepped herself to work a flimsy, ill-fitting, one-piece polyester number from the party store. She stopped short, however, when she pushed open the bathroom door to find not Mary Margaret, but Snow Freaking White.

“Do you like it?” Mary Margaret asked, giving her best princess twirl.

The woman already looked half the part with her jet black hair and creamy white skin, but the dress—no, masterpiece—was all rich fabrics and glittering beading and, well, fit for a princess.

“It’s… amazing!” was all Emma could sputter.

“You’re next!” giggled Mary Margaret, and pulled a black garment bag from a peg in the handicap stall.

After about fifteen minutes of wrestling with a metric ton of crinoline, Emma slipped a pastel blue dress over her head and tried to turn around to look in the mirror, but Mary Margaret grabbed her shoulders and held her in place. She raided Emma’s makeup bag to finish off her face, then fished around the bottom of the garment bag.

“With a mostly female staff, we ran out of princesses pretty fast,” said Mary Margaret, pulling out a tiara and setting it gently on Emma’s head, “but I thought you’d like this!”

The librarian finally let her turn around and Emma just about stole her own breath away. Her gown was just as detailed as Mary Margaret’s, but this was light and shimmery and accented with soft feathers and Emma couldn’t help but laugh.

“The swan princess?”                                                                                                              

“Just showing you what everyone else sees,” Mary Margaret whispered and pinned Emma’s hair so it cascaded about her shoulders.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Emma, are you still in there?” called Belle.

“Man the battle stations!” Mary Margaret laughed, and tugged Emma out the door. Belle stood just outside, holding a costume bag of her own over her shoulder.

“Belle,” blurted Emma, “How did you score these? They’re beautiful!”

“A rental company in the city,” replied the brunette with all the excitement of a successful treasure hunter—or a damn good librarian. “They supply wardrobe and props for local playhouses and such. I almost didn’t bother, the reviews on Yelp made the owner out to be such a beast, but I met with him and he was more than willing to cut me a deal. Just be careful with them!”

Emma brushed a finger through her own hair to fluff it. “You’re a rock star, Belle.”

Belle smiled and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room, but stopped abruptly and turned back to Emma. “Oh, Emma, in all the excitement, I forgot to tell you that Ashley’s on bed rest—she won’t be able to help at the prize table. However, someone else stepped up last minute, so at least you won’t have to run it alone.”

Emma glanced at the clock, the party started in less than a half an hour. “Where is she? Mary Margaret and I can help her get into her dress.”

“Oh, I won’t be needing a dress, Swan,” came a muffled but very distinct voice from behind her and she whipped her head around just in time to watch Killian Jones swagger out of the men’s bathroom, dressed head to toe in black leather.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a wax mustache and a perm?” she quipped.

“Artistic license, darling. Besides,” He fiddled with his wrist brace—because of course he had an actual, honest-to-goodness pirate hook to slip on when duty called—and he looked entirely too pleased with himself when it snapped into place. “I’ve already got the most important bit.”

-0-

Minutes before opening, Belle emerged from the ladies’ bathroom, her dress all tufts and drapes of fabric that moved around her like liquid gold. She escorted them to their station—a table holding a massive treasure chest, plus a surprisingly realistic castle backdrop for photo ops. Belle explained that the kids would bring any tickets they earned at the fair to them to pick out prizes from donors around the town, everything from bookmarks and stickers to free dinner coupons to day passes for museums and amusement parks. Killian nodded his understanding and Belle practically bounced away.

Emma shifted in her seat, grumbling lightly about corsets, but it wasn’t the costume that made her uncomfortable. Professor Jones unsettled her, not because he knew how to work a leather long coat (okay, partially because he knew how to work a leather long coat), but because she couldn’t reconcile the gentleman on a screen in Ruby’s pocket with the leather-clad sass mouth beside her. The disconnect fired up an investigative streak in her that bordered on abuse of her position.

For instance, as his books had trickled back in, she realized he was a “stuffer”. Anything that would do for a bookmark, he slipped between the pages—sticky notes with scribbles in distinctly English English, napkins, paperclips and, on rare occasions, actual bookmarks. She checked each book thoroughly in case he left anything important inside. She told herself she was being kind but, really, she wanted more information, specifically that damning piece of evidence that proved she wasn’t wrong about him.

And yet, even now, when he raised a brow and smoldered at every passing volunteer, she could only see soft fingers and encouragement and lips curled in a different kind of pride.

Emma pressed her lips into a line. One sympathetic incident was hardly enough evidence to date the man, but it was enough to cut him the tiniest, teensiest bit of slack.

“Hey, family friendly event, Professor,” she huffed with just the slightest edge of sarcasm.

“I prefer Captain,” he purred in a way that made her wonder if she’d cut just enough slack to hang herself with, but the triumphant toot of trumpets over the public address system announced the start of the day. Two volunteers dressed like castle guards opened the main doors, and a flood of cheering kids filled the entryway in costumes of all kinds: knights and lady knights, fairies, even a number of Avengers, ninjas, and villains. And more princesses than Emma could process—a dozen Sleeping Beauties, several Mulans, Tianas, a Rapunzel in every color, and an entire fleet of Elsas.

Any concern she had over the professor’s self-control faded quickly. He might have been all confidence and flirtation with her, but for the kids, he was a total ham sandwich. They immediately had a line of boys (and several girls) who wanted their picture taken battling the dreaded Captain Hook, and Emma posed with many an embarrassed boy kissing her hand while their cooing mother snapped photos.

One couple tried to get their two kids—a Captain America and an Anna—to line up for a shot of the boy protecting his sister from Captain Hook when Anna suddenly whacked the pirate’s shoulder with a toy mandolin. Professor Jones, though clearly unhurt, instantly fell to the floor in a dramatic flop, selling it so well that the laughing parents could barely choke out an apology. When the girl realized her misbehavior and, just as suddenly, planted an apology kiss on his cheek, even the professor couldn’t keep a straight face.

Emma waved goodbye as Mom and Dad steered the two kids back toward the festivities, hoping her princess smile hid the slight, slight pang of jealousy she felt at the textbook family unit enjoying themselves. She was happy for them, she was, but—

“Excuse me,” a little voice called from below and Emma looked down to find a little girl staring up at her. She knew the reason for the pools in the girl’s eyes even before she spoke in a breaking voice, “I can’t find my daddy.”

This she knew—fear and loss and loneliness—so she immediately held out her hand for the little girl to take. “Of course, sweetie. What’s your name?”

“Paige,” the girl replied.

Emma turned her head to tell Professor Jones to cover the table, but he had already knelt down beside her to get eye-level with the girl while he motioned the same instructions to Belle. (Nothing like a sharp, pointed weapon to get someone’s attention in a room full of screaming children). One glance at the girl and Belle headed over, nodding her agreement.

“Well, Paige, sweetheart,” he began. “How’s about the three of us take a walk around and when you see your father, you just give us a shout?”

Paige nodded and, as Belle shuffled in behind the treasure chest, Emma, Paige and the pirate professor started a lazy circle around the library. He asked Paige questions about her dad. Some basic—how tall was he? What color hair did he have?—and some clearly to distract her from her own panic—did he like ketchup or mustard on his hot dog? Did he know ketchup was illegal on a hot dog in the city limits of Chicago?—and before Emma knew it, Paige took off running for the circulation desk, where Mary Margaret was trying to calm a very tall, very distraught looking man in a Mad Hatter costume.

“Daddy!” Paige called and the man immediately melted to his knees to catch her up in his arms, apologizing about a business call that took far longer than expected.

Emma smiled at the little family reunited, then looked up at movement at the edge of her vision. Professor Jones, in exaggerated bravado, offered his arm for the short walk back to the prize table.

She took it.

“Thank you, Captain,” she offered as they walked away.

“Killian,” he insisted, “and it’s no problem, I know the feeling.”

“Having a kid break down on you?”

“Misplacing your father.”

It was a joke, at least he made it a joke, but there was an honesty in the statement that hits her in the gut, and suddenly she got it—got him.

“You work with orphans,” she whispered—she hadn’t meant to, it just sort of slipped out, and his eyes snapped to hers.

“Pardon?”

“My roommate—Ruby—she’s a shift manager at the diner across the street she, uh, mentioned you run the kids' nights. But you don’t just work with kids, you work with orphans.”

Something sharpened in his eye and there was a twitch at his mouth. A siren blared in Emma’s mind that she’d overstepped her bounds—Reverse! Reverse!—and like car windows in a sudden rain, some kind of force field rose around him and sealed him off.

He leaned over and patted her hand in a motion that anyone looking at them might have mistaken for endearing, but she saw the defensiveness.

“Happy stories today, Swan,” he whispered into her ear, “happy stories.”

He leaned back as they approached the table. There was a reporter there, talking with Belle, and he lit up when they arrived, pointing out little details in their outfits and complimenting Emma’s eyeliner.

“Pose for a picture?” he asked, and that’s all it took. Captain Hook flung the tails of his coat, took her hand and, keeping eyes firmly locked on hers, bowed to kiss her hand.

He might have his own wall built of showmanship and nonchalance, but to Emma, those too blue eyes were like glass now, cracked windows through which she saw the gentleman behind the pirate, the Killian behind the Captain, and the sight made her smile.

Chapter Text

The paper not only ran the story, but threw together a two-page spread of photos from the fairy tale fair. (She found a copy tacked up on the staff corkboard in the back office.) Most were pictures of the kids' most creative costumes, but front and center sat the shot of Killian's kiss. Emma understood why—the challenge in his eyes, the defiance in hers—it was the stuff of romance novel covers.

All the publicity had Belle sealed in her office, playing phone tag most of the morning. When she called Emma into her office, Emma assumed it was to hand off the paging list or switch out the check-in bins.

"You got the circ promotion."

Belle had to say it twice before it registered.

"I'll explain all the details later, but I wanted you to know before the day got away from me. I know it's a rush, but could you start Monday?"

Emma could do little more than nod and make a pleasant noise of gratitude before the phone rang again. Belle waved her out with cheery congratulations. Emma shuffled back out to Adult Non-Fiction, dumbstruck, but by the time she got back to her cart, she could not stop smiling. Not because of the money, exactly—a small town library hardly commanded the big bucks—but it did fit the dictionary definition of legit and if she was starting fresh she might as well go full-tilt.

She let her arms and lower brain functions take over the mundane work of slipping books back into place. She was mentally calculating if a trip to Ikea lay somewhere in her future when she absently whipped around the end of the shelving stack and slammed into the shoulder of a collared button-down. In her defense, she hadn't expected the man in said button-down (red, now with a smear the color of her foundation across the collarbone) to be flattened up against the end of the stack as if trying to blend in with the Taylor Swift "READ" poster taped to its side.

"Sorry, sorry," she blurted as the stack of materials in his arms slid from his grip. She instinctively pulled away, but an arm around her waist tugged her back to catch the handful of books and CDs between their bodies before they could fall. She made to protest, except the hand of his other arm came to his lips to shush her and her eyes flicked to his—blue, and widened in warning.

"Killian?"

He tapped the finger to his lip again, urgently this time. Emma thought he was mocking her until he made a desperate motion over his shoulder with his eyes. She peered around him to find an older woman grazing the paperback romance turnstiles, the lion's share of which had gravitated into a canvas bag at her feet. She had a Frommer's travel guide to the Caribbean tucked under one arm. With her free hand, she paged through some dog-eared bodice ripper. The door to the library opened and the woman glanced up. Emma realized either by coincidence or contrivance, the woman had a perfect view of anyone entering—or leaving—the building.

"She was here last night," Killian whispered. Emma squinted and replayed her mental tape from the fair. Add to her regal stance chestnut hair, a starched collar, a shovel full of makeup, and a dress that only went through doors sideways and Emma was pretty sure she was looking at the Queen of Hearts. Emma only remembered because, as Emma and Killian had posed for a picture—Emma with a comically fake dagger at his throat—the woman had huffed that it was un-ladylike and bad for her manicure to hold a man at sword point.

"She wanted to take me on a cruise to Jamaica," Killian continued. "I thought she was just flirting, but here she is again."

"Really?" she whispered. "Sounds like a woman after your own heart."

"Or my kidneys!" he hissed back. "Well-to-do woman invites perfect stranger on lavish vacation? I'd rather avoid waking up in a tub of ice cubes, thank you. "

The woman swayed in her stance and Emma caught sight of the under-dressed pirate on the book's cover.

"Definitely not your kidneys she's interested in."

Killian made a soft whimpering sound she would have missed had she not been so close and she almost had to laugh.

She was absolutely not enjoying watching his full-on flirt powers backfire in his face. That was strictly against library policy.

"Come on, Tiger," Emma said as she peeled away from him, carefully catching the small pile of books and CDs as they came free between them. "I'll check you out in the back office. You can sneak out the staff entrance."

He looked like a man pardoned from the gallows as he all but dashed after her, pausing only to peer around the ends of stacks, as if the dreaded queen could suddenly teleport herself into the middle of an aisle. When Emma opened the door to the back office, Killian slipped in and immediately parted the blinds to the windows that separated the office from the circ desk to ensure they weren't followed.

She slid into a seat in front of one of the check-in computers, pulled up his account, and started scanning his selections: several Jimi Hendrix CDs, a biography of Def Leppard, and some glam rock resurgence band she'd seen trending on Twitter. Emma looked from their bad-boy guyliner and rock star chic leather pants to Killian's business casual and couldn't help but think he felt far more comfortable wearing animal hide than Eddie Bauer.

"So what's with the get-up," she asked. "You actually look like a productive member of society today."

"Department meeting," he replied, then turned his head toward her, letting the blinds snap back into place. "What, Swan? You think I'd wear my costume to work? Hardly professional of me."

"That was your costume?"

He only responded with a bite of his lip and a quirk of his brow. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the door to Belle's office opened then and the librarian rushed out.

"Killian," she said with only the slightest surprise, and the familiarity in her voice made something squirm in Emma's gut. "Good afternoon. Sorry, I'm terribly late. No time to chat." She added, scrambling for the small coat rack to grab her raincoat and umbrella. "Emma, I have to run and return all the costumes to the shop. See you Monday!"

She shrugged the coat on and dashed out the door, a final "congratulations again" slipped in with the spring air before the door latched shut.

"Congratulations?" Killian echoed.

"Promotion. I'm going full-time."

"Now that calls for a few of Granny's rum runners, wouldn't you agree?"

The offer dripped from his lips as if he assumed her acceptance without question, which would have ensured her turning him down, except that his eyes darted back to the paper, as if already anticipating the blow of rejection.

That just might have been half the reason she said yes.

(She decided, retrospectively, the shock in his eyes when he spun on his heels just might have been the other half.)

-0-

Emma ignored the lip-biting smirk Ruby gave from behind the counter as Emma and Killian slid into a booth at Granny's. Instead, she kept her attention on Killian, asking about his book while she perused the booze menu. Whether by virtue of Emma's massive movie marathon or Killian's knack for storytelling, she actually kept up with his piratical ramblings. He mentioned Blackbeard, who set said beard on fire at the start of a battle, and Morgan, the pirate-governor of Jamaica, and the sadistic l'Olonnais, who ripped out a man's heart for want of treasure.

"But come now, Emma," he said after Ruby delivered their drinks, backing away with a hidden thumbs up. Killian took up his beer. (He'd have ordered something stronger if he didn't still have his meeting to get to in as reputable a disposition as possible). "How can I properly toast your next big step when I haven't the rest of the story for context?"

"Not much to tell. Just moved up from Florida, trying to restart," she began, but Killian cut her off.

"You've already got the job, Swan. The interview portion is over."

She slid her drink closer to herself, the glass making a heavy sound across the table. "What happened to 'happy stories'?"

He caught the side of his bottom lip between his teeth and leaned back in the booth, never breaking eye contact, as if sizing up how much she could handle.

He released his lip and took a quick swig of his beer. "You were right last night," he replied. "I didn't have much back home. Thought I could put an ocean between myself and my disappointments, so I came here to pursue my first love."

"Piracy?" she snickered.

"Music," he corrected. "Guitar, specifically. Had a band and, I thought, a straight shot to stardom until a semi took a straight shot at our van."

Her eyes involuntarily darted to his hook. "Is that how…?"

"Aye."

"That's horrific."

He swirled his glass in his hand, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. "Horrific is what happened to our drummer."

The way his knuckles whitened around the glass made her want to ask what exactly his definition of "horrific" entailed, but he lifted the drink and knocked back another gulp. He licked froth from his bottom lips before they cracked into a subtle smile. "Fortunately for me, breaking more bones than I could name laid me up for half an eternity."

"Fortunately? Traction was a good experience for you?"

"Good? No. I was plastered to near immobility—not in the good way—and so boiling mad at the world entire that I absolutely terrorized the hospital staff. I'm surprised they didn't kick me plug."

"Good to know that you have a long track record of irritating people who are trying to help you."

"Especially librarians," he added.

Emma furrowed a brow at the comment, not sure what to make of it, when her mind clicked back to orientation and Belle explaining their hospital outreach program. Belle made special runs throughout the week to the hospital to loan materials out to long-term patients because, apparently, the woman was actually a saint in stilettos.

"Oh no," Emma moaned.

"She suffered my abuse for all of three seconds, put on the most atrocious sugary tween nonsense of an audiobook, and left me to my lonesome. I hadn't endured but twenty minutes before I had the nurse bring her back in so I could apologize. That's why I say 'fortunately'. From then on, she was the friend I didn't deserve. Also, a fantastic directory of Western Literature."

"I'm guessing this is where the pirate thing comes in."

Killian shrugged. "Why not?" he said, and took another swig. "I had watched my dreams crumble to dust before my eyes, watched me mates move on with theirs. After everything else I'd been through, it felt like something was against me getting my happy ending. Like all those dirty thieves at war with all, all my best intentions doomed by design."

Emma froze, her lips on her own glass. All this sounded a bit too familiar. She hadn't even had home to leave before Neal, and when she had swept up and tossed away the last fragments of that "happy ending" with the stray sand and crunchy crumbs and bent paperclips of her—their—old apartment, she wondered if she had fooled herself in wanting a life on the up-and-up.

Once a thief, always a thief.

"Belle knew exactly what she was doing," Killian continued, and Emma gulped her rum. "They say a reader lives a thousand lives before they die. By the time I could walk again, I'd fallen prey to the curse of the voracious reader: I learned something."

"Therapeutic piracy. Who would have guessed?" she quipped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and trying to cover her sudden discomfort. "So what did you learn?"

"Not everyone is meant for their first love," he said into his glass.

Emma's eyes shot to Ruby, who had been taking her time taking an order behind them. The girl returned a rattled look that said "I swear I said nothing." Emma looked back to Killian, expecting some knowing leer, but his eyes stared at the bottom of his now empty glass until the jangling of the bell over the diner's door broke him from his reverie.

Just like at the reception desk, just like at the fair, his ears reddened and his lips turned down and that thin shield invisible to everyone but them swept over his features.

Killian's phone buzzed in his pocket. His meeting.

"Look at me souring a celebration with my sordid tale," he grunted as he fished for his wallet. He pulled out enough cash to cover their drinks and a nice tip for Ruby, dropping the money on the table as he rose. "Congratulations, Swan. Truly."

Killian swept out the door before Emma could collect the wits to respond. Ruby came over under the guise of collecting the payment, but when Emma moved to get up, she stuck her foot on the side of the booth, blocking her from leaving.

"I'll bring one of Granny's lasagnas home if you double-pinkie swear right now to tell me everything that just happened here."

Emma sighed. After that conversation, she didn't have the energy to fight off one of Ruby's inquisitions, certainly not on an empty stomach. She slumped over in her booth with a groan.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Ruby replied and pranced off with the cash.

Chapter Text

Emma woke up on April 1st in an unusually good mood, despite the grumbling rain pelting her window.

She hummed as she buzzed around the kitchenette because Ruby had made the mistake of dragging Mary Margaret home with her last night for the dreaded inquisition, but any hope she had had for back up backfired once Emma related the events at the diner strictly as promised. Mary Margaret, true to her promise in the Goodwill parking lot, squashed any further conversation on the matter of the pirate professor, no matter how much Ruby pouted. The librarian diverted the conversation to Emma's promotion, rattling off a list of habitual sins of problematic patrons to prepare herself for, and Ruby, eventually admitting defeat, delved into horror stories from the diner. Sometime after Emma's third heaping helping of lasagna, the warmth of the cheesy goodness in her stomach melted the ice she had held in her gut, and her own cackles relaxed muscles she didn't know she had. A night free of tension, full of laughter, and a tad too much rum recharged something in her spirit that left her lighter as she had crawled into bed.

Though the night's conversation never strayed back to Killian, Emma's morning thoughts, cleared by a good night's sleep, now drifted to severed dreams and walls that unveiled more than they obscured. Mary Margaret had mentioned something about her own shield rising out of fear and Emma briefly wondered what Killian's flaring in her presence meant, but she quickly shelved that thought as a bit too much introspection before her morning coffee.

She hummed a little louder as she reached for the refrigerator handle, as if that could block out the newspaper photo strategically placed on the door.

By the time she'd eaten and had her second cup of coffee, however, she'd all but decided that maybe the professor should hear her story, too. Over drinks. To be fair.

Just somewhere other than Granny's.

-0-

Emma volunteered to help Mary Margaret set up her April Fool's display in the children's section before the doors opened. She offered because it was time with her friend, not because she had any particular talent with a glue stick or assembling the fantastically complicated 3D jester the woman made out of construction paper and a prayer. When Emma nearly crushed the wrapping paper roll scepter that was apparently the entirety of the prop's structural integrity, Mary Margaret relegated her to gluing together paper jester crowns for the staff.

The fact she kept gluing pieces upside down or wrong side out had everything to do with her completely un-crafty nature and nothing to do with the stack of nautical history books in the back office destined for a certain professor.

Mary Margaret unlocked the doors promptly at 9am, but Emma felt a pang of disappointment when only a little boy wandered in out of the rain. He grabbed a book from 398.2 (Folk and Fairy Tales), and settled into a study table, swinging his feet under his chair while he read. Emma set about cutting out new sets of crown pieces and tried to distract herself by guessing at the boy's age. She quickly gave up on that game, however, because he was dark-haired, and she always decided dark haired boys were born precisely fifty-seven seconds before a nurse, scrubbed sterile and frowning, carried a screaming baby out of the door and out of her life forever.

Emma shook the thought from her head, glanced at the clock and noted, given his previous track record, Killian Jones was already 26 minutes late to pick up his holds.

Not that she was keeping track.

The entrance door swung open then and she caught a flash of leather, but she had to hide both her disappointment and her pile of mangled construction paper when August dropped off his latest choice in brooding poetry collections.

She had just stuffed away the last of her supplies, a dozen or so of the paper props lined along the desk to dry, when a green Prius screeched to a stop right in the fire lane outside the library. Through the picture windows, Emma watched a small blonde woman leap out, phone glued to her ear. She was a whirlwind, pausing only to heft a canvas library bag out of her backseat and kick the door shut before she strode into the library, still yapping on her phone. Emma had half a mind to text David for a quick tow job (being best friends with the Sheriff's wife had its privileges), but the one-sided conversation stopped her short.

"So help me, Killian, if I don't have a ring on my finger by Friday, I'm locking you out of the apartment."

She had bright golden curls and deep green eyes and skin made out of freaking moonbeams and Emma's first instinct was to calculate if she could fling her scissors into those eyes at this distance. Her second instinct was to slide them into the drawer. It's this second one she went with and she slammed the drawer shut so hard that she heard the would-be weapon skitter along the bottom and slam into the back of the drawer.

It's not that Killian, she reasoned to herself. Killian had to be a popular name somewhere, right?

(Just not here, her logic center pointed out.)

The woman grunted a goodbye and dropped her phone into her purse, making a bee-line for Emma's desk. She unceremoniously dropped the bag in front of Emma, sending two of the crowns flying to the floor behind the desk. The bag flopped over, dumping one of the books straight into Emma's lap.

A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates.

It was definitely that Killian.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up holds for Professor Killian Jones," the woman stated too sweetly for the venomous sounds she'd just spewed into her phone.

Emma was seriously reconsidering the scissors when a pink sweater popped out of nowhere, Mary Margaret softly said, "I'm sorry, but it's library policy that only the cardholder may pick up materials reserved on their card."

"Oh," responded the other woman, and she stuck a hand back into her bag. "I understand. Thanks," she added, though visibly annoyed, and then walked away, fumbling in her bag. Emma counted it a blessing that she didn't find the phone until the doors had swung shut behind her.

Emma thumbed the edge of the book still in her lap and the pale post-it's peeking out of the edges confirmed every doubt in her head.

There was always someone else.

"Why don't we take these in back, Emma," Mary Margaret suggested, and it was only because of the hot droplets hitting her thighs that Emma realized she was crying.

-0-

Emma barely made it through the door to the back office before she upended the bag and let its contents fall onto the scuffed linoleum. Books, CD's, audiobooks, and magazines spilled out, but to her shock and disgust, only a handful of pirate books lay at her feet. The resounding, confounding majority were about wedding planning.

"Emma, I'll take care of-" Mary Margaret started, but Emma grabbed up an armload and slid in front of a computer. "Emma, don't," she warned, but the scanner beeped away.

How to propose. Best honeymoon cruises. Classic wedding songs. Modern manners. Beachfront ceremonies. Color schemes. Romantic melodies for firelight dinners. Cake ideas.

Her eyes were too blurry to keep going, but the computer confirmed what she already knew.

They were all checked out to Killian Jones.

"Emma, Emma. You're upset. Go home. I'll tell Belle… something."

"No, I want to do this," she said as she grabbed another book from the floor. A thick book of sheet music for classic rock wedding songs had caught her eye; a few stapled sheets of paper peeked out above the edges. She flipped it open to an arrangement for "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" and bit into her lip because all of it had been too good to be true. If Emma had allowed herself even the slightest hope, this dashed it to nothing: a receipt for a wedding band trio—the engagement ring a bright green emerald with a circle of diamonds around it and the inscription "My Happy Ending" on both wedding bands—charged to a Mr. Killian Jones. Yesterday. Barely an hour after their celebratory drinks.

(So much for his "department meeting.")

This was no joke, no game. Killian had bought an engagement ring for another woman while trying to swoon her on the side. The only thing worse in Emma's book than being cheated on was knowingly being the other woman and she refused to be that. Emma was no one's side gig.

She didn't bother arguing after that, with herself or with Mary Margaret, just grabbed her purse and stormed out the door, past the desk and out through the main entrance, the receipt still curled in her hand.

She noticed the little boy had disappeared, like so many other dreams, and she felt twice the fool for ever suspecting Emma Swan ever got a second chance.

-0-

Emma barely had her key in the lock before the door to her apartment swung open and Ruby nearly tackled her in a hug.

"Oh, Emma. Mary Margaret texted me. I had no idea. I swear."

The sincerity in Ruby's voice only made Emma angrier because Emma had had an idea, Emma had seen this coming. She knew better that to fall for this.

Ruby straightened, grabbed Emma by the shoulders and squeezed. "I can and will pour rat poison into his coffee."

The thought was so ludicrous that, despite the sore spot in Emma's throat, she broke out in a laugh. A choked, chortled sort of thing that sounded more like a sob, but a laugh none the less.

"Come on," Ruby urged, tugging her back out toward the kitchen and Emma followed. The door clicked shut behind them as Ruby marched Emma to the freezer. "A new supplier dropped off a bunch of ice cream samples. Some sister-owned ice cream company wants to partner with us. Granny just dropped some off for me to try, but since literally mi casa es su casa…" She put a hand on the handle to open the freezer, catching sight of the newspaper photo with Killian. Ruby growled and grabbed it off the door, sending several little wolf magnets clattering to the ground, then shoved it into the freezer. When she pulled her arm back out, she had a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, which she offered to Emma. "All you can eat!"

"I refuse to cry into a tub of ice cream over any more cheating liars," Emma huffed, folding her arms rather than taking the pint.

"You're not crying over a guy, you're conducting a thorough taste test to support local business women." Emma lifted a brow, but took the pint. Ruby grabbed another for herself and made for the DVD rack. "Now, I think I have something where a wolf eviscerates a British guy."

(She did indeed—a trilogy, actually—though the emotional drain hit Emma sometime after the opening credits of the third and not even the sugar rush of the ice cream could keep her awake. She nestled back into the futon and vowed, as she slipped into darkness, that she was thoroughly done with all things Killian Jones.)

Chapter Text

Emma and Ruby woke up exactly how they had fallen asleep—Emma a futon burrito and Ruby sprawled on a beanbag—Ruby’s cell phone alarm chirping the sleep from their eyes.  Both pulled their blankets close against an unseasonable chill in the apartment as they got to their feet. Emma went over to the windows to let in some natural light while Ruby shuffled into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

Emma tugged the cord to raise the blinds, then stared unblinking at the town below completely covered in white. Apparently the temperature had dropped overnight, turning the rain to snow, and it was still falling in thick swirls.

An April blizzard. Even global warming wanted to crap on her this week.

Spurred by this sight, Emma and Ruby scurried to get ready, bundling up in jackets and long undies and all those other clothes Emma didn’t miss in Florida. She walked Ruby to the diner, even though Ruby’s shift started a full hour before Emma’s, because this was buddy-system weather at any age. She was so preoccupied getting there safely that she hadn’t thought to check her phone until she sat down in the diner with a cup of hot cocoa.

She found a text from Belle:  

Lots of snow and ice expected today. Closing as a precaution. Stay safe! – Belle

Emma glanced over at the library through the driving snow and, true to the text, the place was still completely dark, which actually frustrated her a bit. While Emma enjoyed a day off like anyone else, with the storm in town there would be little to do but sit at home and Emma was too full of energy, too angry now, to sit at home. Maybe she’d find some sidewalks to shovel or cars to unbury or—

The sound of an engine rumbled through the street, amplified by the blankets of snow and a car slid to a stop in front of the library. It hadn’t been going very fast, but with the cold snap, yesterday’s rain had turned to ice on the ground, leaving the streets a skating rink. The car was an old Crown Victoria with an ex-cop paint job and she knew it meant trouble even before the back passenger door opened and Killian stepped out.

He ignored the diner, looking straight to the library, brows knit in confusion. He closed the door and made his way to the windows, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the snow.

She should leave it alone, let him figure it out for himself, but the anger burned too hot to follow logic. He had his hand on the doors, trying the knobs, when she finally stepped out of the diner.

“It’s closed,” she called, and the snow carried her voice across the cold expanse of the otherwise empty street.

He whipped around, his lips curled into a smile, “Swan!”

“Come back tomorrow. Belle will get your books then.” She scoffed this last part, the snow amplifying it to a verbal slap.

“Swan?” he repeated, concern in the upturn of his voice, like he had any right to be offended, and she realized if she didn’t leave this situation immediately she was going to do something that would get her fired and possibly arrested.

“Goodbye, Hook,” she spat and turned back toward the diner.

“Emma! Wait-” he called, sounding suddenly desperate, but his word slurred into a curse and she saw in the white reflection of the diner windows that he went down, slipped on a patch of ice, all legs and leather. She wanted to keep walking (because that was the exact kind of bull he would pull to get sympathy), but he shouted again and the hurt in the crack of his voice seemed so believable that she hesitated. It was a woman’s shout, however, that ultimately made her turn around.

“Killian!?” came a voice from the car and the front passenger’s door opened. The blonde with the Prius, her white as moonbeam skin glowing like fairy-light in the bright of all the reflecting snow, got out and scrambled for him as best she could over the snow and ice. She almost slipped once and raised her left hand to balance herself. Emma was almost blinded by the green headlight of a gem on her hand and Emma stalked across the street before she knew what she was doing.

“You came with her?” she blurted at Killian. “Really?”

“Came with who, Swan?” Killian threw his empty arm around the other woman as she bent to pull him to his feet. The ground was slick, though, and his boots slipped again and again, trying to find purchase. “What’s this about?”

“Your fiancé, Jones,” she said, pointing to the blonde woman. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m done.”

“You think I’m--” Killian started, surprise in his tone. He was halfway up, leaning mostly on the Prius-fairy’s support now. He glanced between the two women, then his eyes widened, landed back on Emma, and he broke into a devilish grin.

“You think I’m engaged, to him?” The woman squeaked, so shocked at this that she let go of Killian and he fell sprawling back to the ice.

Which wasn’t really the reaction she expected from either of them.

“Yesterday… I thought you said you lived together,” Emma said, starting to second guess herself. The woman realizing how Emma had heard this, turned pink and opened her mouth to answer, but Killian’s laughter drowned any response.

Emma wanted to kick him in the spleen, but the Prius-fairy beat her to it. Killian grunted in pain as the woman spat: “You are a despicable little man, Jones, to be enjoying this.”

Emma decided that, all things considered, she might actually like the woman.

“She’s not my fiancé,” Killian finally confessed, his laughs dying to snickers. “Though I’ll give it to you we see far too much of each other. She’s my co-author. We work out of her apartment.” He waved an arm at the other woman in an attempt at formality. “Allow me to introduce, Arabella Green, professor of history. But I call her Tinker Bell.”

“No,” Professor Green corrected, sticking a finger in his face, “you want people to call me that to propagate your Peter Pan syndrome. I’ll have none of it.”

“Well I can’t call you Arabella, that’s a ship’s name.”

“It was a girl’s name first!”

The name sounded familiar and Emma had to think back a few months, to a black and white romance on her humble flatscreen.

Captain Blood. The Arabella was the pirate ship in Captain Blood.

Maybe she really could be his-

“Co-author?” Emma replied, as if testing the word for the ring of truth.

“The publishing house didn’t trust him to write an unbiased account of his cut-throat man-crushes,” the other woman grumbled.

“The books,” she shot back at Killian. “All the wedding planning books on your account?”

Killian looked to the sky as if the answer were obvious. “I borrowed them for her. She hasn’t got a card yet.”

“No,” Emma threw a hand into her pocket, feeling the crumple of paper she had folded up and shoved in there as she got ready in the morning to ground herself in the reality of her own humiliation. She pulled it out, unfolded it, and threw it at him. “You most definitely bought that ring. You left that receipt in one of your books.”

The driver door of the Crown Vic opened and the driver got out and looked their way. Emma started to wonder how she would explain to Sheriff David—and to Belle—why she’d allowed the assault of a one-armed man on library property if someone called the police on this scene.

“Aye, I bought it,” replied Killian, raising himself up on his arms. “So she could hide the charge until she could propose to her actual boyfriend. “

Emma crossed her arms. “Those are some awfully big favors for a co-worker.”

“She was proposing to my brother.”

“You said you were an orphan!”

“Orphan, yes,” called the driver, a dark-haired, thick-built man with an air of authority. “Alone, sadly, no.”

He rounded the car and came to Killian’s side in a matter of strides. Up close he was all curls and blue eyes and their resemblance undeniable. He lifted Killian to his feet with all the effort of one righting a couch cushion. “I said ‘yes’, by the way.”

“You bought a ring for your brother’s girlfriend?” She said, still not sure she stood in reality.

“They had a very generous refund policy,” Professor Jones replied and Professor Green wound a fist back to punch him, but his brother caught it, turned it into a caress and sidestepped the woman to curl a comforting arm around her. He offered his other hand to Emma. “Liam Jones. Charmed.”

Emma shook it because what else does one do when slipping into madness.

“Emma Swan,” she replied, “Confused.”

Killian tilted his head, eyeing her through his lashes. “Really? You sure it isn’t ‘jealous’, Swan?”

“Swan?” Liam repeated, and smiled at Emma. “Ah, so you must be the reason Killian borrowed 27 books he already owns.”

Killian’s face fell as if the man had just pantsed him in front of a nun and that, more than anything, sealed it for Emma that they were, in fact, siblings.

“Come back to the car, my darling,” Liam whispered into Professor Green’s ear. “I sense we’re intruding. Let’s go run the car so the Chinese doesn’t get cold.” Liam tagged his fiancé back to the car, though she glared daggers at Killian the whole way, and she really did remind Emma of the sassy fairy.

Emma didn’t speak until the couple was back in the car, doors closed and windows up.

“Chinese food? For breakfast?” was the closest to a logical sentence she could muster.

“Liam’s stomach is still on London time,” Killian replied with a shrug. “He’s the one that mucked things up, actually. He was overseas on business, but came home early yesterday. Didn’t even tell me until he was getting on the plane at Heathrow. Some sappy nonsense about wanting to celebrate their anniversary together.” He motioned toward the car. “Tink was sure he planned to propose on their anniversary—this weekend—so she had me pick him up yesterday and try to casually talk him into some brotherly dinner at some swanky restaurant so she could switch places and pop the question before he got the chance.”

“You couldn’t talk him into it,” Emma finished, understanding dawning on her. “That’s why she was yelling at you when she dropped off your books?”

Killian nodded. “It all turned out for the best, she asked him over a candlelight dinner at home. Any plan that doesn’t require me dressing up in a suit and tie, I’m all for.”

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. “So I just completely embarrassed myself in front of your family and soon-to-be family over absolutely nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’, Swan,” Killian took a step closer.

“Yeah, says the man who just laughed in my face.”

“Laughing at the idea, love. Never at you. Even then, they were laughs of joy, I assure you. You’re an open book, Swan, but hardly an open invitation. Seeing you that upset over ‘another woman’, it gave me hope and… Well... I suppose we’re both guilty of letting emotion run away with us.”

A gust of wind blew Emma’s hair wild and Killian took it upon himself to push her hair back, out of her face with his hand, letting his thumb linger on the dimple in her chin.

“But, given what you saw,” he continued, “I’d have thought the same. And I have probably done worse to me if I thought I had tried to harm you. Really, considering how many of my meals your roommate handles, I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“You might not want to eat or drink anything she hands you until I’ve talked to her,” said Emma, cracking her first smile since the whole confrontation began.

Killian returned the smile and took another step forward, leaning into her personal space. “You never did answer my first question, love.”

“What question was that?”

He leaned down until her vision held nothing but his face and the drifts of snow that blew into his eyelashes, causing him to blink, though those blue eyes never wavered in their invitation. “Do you fancy a good pirate?”

Emma’s jaw slackened. She didn’t have the words to answer. She’d spent so much time waiting for his true colors to show, yet now she saw Killian so clearly, no walls or windows between them. Nowhere did she see the shallow playboy of her earliest accusations, at least not anymore. He simply wasn’t that kind of man.

He was the kind of man who buried little nothings into his books (and Emma uncovered like little treasures). Who carried the scars of tragedy on his body, but laughed with the light and warmth of a man who knew no pain. Who knelt in the darkness and whispered courage into frightened ears.

Good didn’t begin to describe him.

His ears started to pink and his eyes started to glaze and Emma knew that shield would come flying back up, so she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled him to herself because Killian Jones was most definitely the kind of man Emma Swan kissed boldly, thoroughly, in the falling snow.

(And if word got back to Belle, she’d claim it was her civic duty since he wasn’t wearing a scarf and his skin was looking a little chapped in the wind and frostbite is serious business if left untreated.)

Her butt buzzed with a text message and it startled her enough to break the kiss. Killian smiled sheepishly at Emma, tapped his forehead against hers, whether as a romantic gesture or because it really was that cold she wasn’t sure.

“Not to rush anything,” Liam called from the car. “But if it’s between eating my General Tso’s while it’s still hot and leaving you to die of exposure, Killian, I will take the General Tso’s every time.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Tink huffed. “We’ll be lucky to make it down the street alive, much less home.”

Killian pressed his lips to a line and made to pull away, but she tugged him back.

“My place is literally just around the block,” she called over to the couple in the car. “You guys are welcome to hold tight there until they can clear up the streets.”

Liam and Tink both jumped at the chance to get off the slippery roads for a while.

Killian pulled open the back door of the Crown Vic, inviting her in. “Tink hates to cook and fires tend to spontaneously erupt when Liam tries, so we always order plenty.”

Emma crawled into the backseat to find Killian wasn’t exaggerating. They both had to set paper bags packed near to bursting in their laps, though Emma welcomed the warmth against her knees. She guided Liam into her parking lot and, though it wasn’t far, Liam drove slow on the ice and Emma took the opportunity to respond to Ruby’s numerous and progressively emphatic text messages.

Once in the apartment, the two brothers laid out nothing short of a feast while Tink raided the DVD rack, pulling out a copy of Against All Flags. Liam, and ex-navy man, immediately groaned at the idea of a pirate movie, until Tink explained the main character (played by Errol Flynn, of course) was a navy officer undercover as a pirate to break up a pirate ring, which seemed to sate him. The older Jones took the red wingback and Emma considered dragging in the beanbag, but Tink quickly curled onto Liam’s lap, leaving the futon for Emma and Killian.

The two of them set their food down on the “coffee table”, which Emma only now realized really did look like something pulled from a shipwreck, in a Pottery Barn sort of way, and she suspected that was at least part of the reason for the smirk on Killian’s face. They both eased onto the worn contraption at a respectable distance from each other, but the futon clearly had other ideas. The mattress at their backs flopped over them, curling around their shoulders, and shoving them gently together.

Killian lifted a brow, as if to ask permission, before curling his fingers through hers.

“Not quite how I pictured our first date, Swan,” he whispered into her ear, “but I’ll take it.”

Chapter Text

Tink may not have had the life-consuming pirate obsession that Killian had, but she none-the-less ran a tight ship. As long as Killian behaved himself Monday through Friday, working on their manuscript at the apartment (when he wasn’t teaching, of course), his weekends were his own. Tink even used the GPS to monitor his location. Fridays, she was more lax; kicking Killian out of the apartment promptly at 5pm and locking the door on him until Monday morning.

All this worked fine for Emma. The new circ position kept her plenty busy. With the end of the school year looming, the library was packed with kids cramming for exams or working on final presentations.

It happened to be a Friday afternoon when the boy with the fairy tale book came back, this time with his sister and father. His name was Nicholas; he and his sister needed to put together a family tree, plus a presentation on a contribution from their cultural heritage. Nicholas figured he had the one base covered with Germanic fairy tales (hence the book), but they both needed help with the ancestry bit. Emma sent them to Belle because that kind of stuff was literally her job, but also because experience proved that Emma had no talent for finding family. Still, Emma couldn’t help but glance over from her desk while Belle showed the children websites to trace their lineage and books of heraldry to study their family name. As an orphan, it haunted her—that utter mystery of her own origins—made worse by the unease in her gut at the thought of another little boy out there, perhaps doing the same project, unable to answer the most basic questions. Not even if Emma had kept him.

If Emma had kept him…

She was so lost in that thought that she didn’t notice Killian had come through the door until he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You alright?” he asked.

“What? Yeah, fine.” She checked the clock on her computer to realize she was almost ten minutes late clocking out. “Just lost track of time.”

-0-

Emma probably spent twenty minutes studying the specials menu at Granny’s—a list of only three items—before Killian cleared his throat.

“All right, you’re clearly preoccupied with something. What is it?” he asked, tilting his glass to take a sip of his drink.

“My son,” she stated automatically, before her verbal censor could kick in. Her eyes flicked up to his drink. She expected him to spit it out, spill it on himself or something, but he only paused, his mouth full of rum, set his glass down, and swallowed thoughtfully.

“So what happened?”

“When I was in Florida... I was not parent material, trust me. I gave him up before I even had him.” Her eyes dipped down to the table and she picked up one of the paper napkins, rubbing her fingers against its rough texture. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drop that kind of bomb like that.”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to balk and run for the door because you have functioning reproductive organs?” Killian sat forward, leaning on his elbows. “Now if you tell me you’re secretly a snake-headed dragon or a crocodile or something, I might have to reconsider.”

She laughed at that because why would she expect the guy surrounded by orphaned kids to be freaked out by another orphaned kid?

“At the time, I thought it was the best decision,” she continued.

“From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like your life was particularly safe for a child.”

Emma started to tear the napkin into pieces, bit by bit.“It didn’t bother me so much until I got this job. Now, being surrounded by kids all the time, I can’t help but think about him. Wonder if…”

“He’s as mad at you as you are your parents?”

“I just want to know he’s okay.”

“And if he’s not okay?”

She balled the rest of the napkin in her fist. “I’ll make him okay.”

Killian put a hand over her balled fist. “Then I’ll make some calls. Maybe someone at the boys’ and girls’ homes can give us somewhere to start.”

-0-

Encouraged by Killian’s support, Emma let Mary Margaret and the others in on their plan. Mary Margaret immediately took the job of head cheerleader, Belle started reading anything she could find on adoption law, and Ruby turned to her social media connections, launching a campaign to #findbabyswan. Comments flooded in—from sympathetic well-wishers to internet trolls to support from birth parents across the country—but precious few turned up any viable leads. Emma tried to keep her hopes low, but couldn’t quench that defiant spark of excitement every time Killian’s phone buzzed with a call from one of his legal connections. They had checked in with several adoption registries, but so far no luck.

Finals came and went, releasing Killian from the university for the summer. Tink, taking pity on an emotionally exhausted Emma, let Killian have an extra night off to celebrate Emma’s birthday. Killian tried his hardest to distract her with a night on the town, and for the most part, he succeeded, but when he presented her with the most adorable birthday cupcake, all she could think about as she blew out the little star-shaped candle was pink skin and howling cries.

Not three seconds after the tiny flame turned to smoke, the wick still glowing with a golden ember, Emma’s phone pinged for her attention. She snapped it up and slid the screen open to check her mailbox.

Clearance sale at Victoria’s Secret.

She unsubscribed out of pure spite, then started on her cupcake. She ate mechanically, smiling as if she enjoyed it, but she tasted nothing.

Emma was in the shower later, trying to wash away the sense of failure, when her phone rang.  She shut off the shower and stumbled out, wrapping a towel around her despite the fact no one could see her over the phone. She grabbed the device up from her discarded clothes—it wasn’t a number she recognized, but Killian had forwarded her number to a few family law firms that came highly recommended, so she hit the pickup button.

“Emma Swan,” she said in her best attempt at a mature, put-together woman despite the fact she was mostly naked, dripping wet, and a little irritated at the interruption.

“Miss Swan?” a deep but feminine voice on the other end replied. “My name is Regina Mills. I believe I have your son.”

-0-

After a blood test, a hefty stack of paperwork, and about a week of phone calls, Emma sat in her bug outside a meticulously manicured mansion, trying her best not to chew her fingernails. Her son had been adopted by a small-town mayor, which not only explained the paperwork but the unsettling question of how Regina had found her number in the first place. The contract’s language had been a little above Emma’s comprehension, but the gist of it, she surmised, indicated that A.) Emma would not seek custody and B.) should one Emma Swan cause any harm—emotional, physical, or otherwise—to come to one Henry Mills, one Regina Mills would be held blameless should Emma turn up in a ditch somewhere, possibly on fire.

That wasn’t actually the part that made her nervous, the figure getting out of the driver’s seat in the shiny rental behind her was. She watched the door slam shut through the rear view mirror and Neal, still tan from the Florida sun, turned to face the bug.

Her knee warmed as Killian, in the passenger seat next to her, rubbed strength into her leg. “I suppose that’s our cue?”

Emma nodded and leaned in for a quick kiss before climbing out of the car. Killian hung back at the car per her request until they’d exchanged their pleasantries. She gave Neal a hug and a warm greeting because, while she still had her hurts, this wasn’t the time or place to have it out. Today wasn’t about them. Killian slipped in behind her as they made for the door, setting a hand on the small of her back.

Emma had barely knocked before the white door flew open to reveal a sandy-blond man holding a dark-haired little boy. Emma immediately knew the boy to be too young to be her son, but anticipation leapt in her gut anyway.

“Hello,” the man greeted with a warm smile, and propped the door open with a shoulder, extending his hand. “I’m Robin. You must be Emma.”

Emma took his hand, something about the man’s cheery demeanor already put her at ease.

“And Neal?” Robin asked, offering Neal a hand, which he took. “And…? Robin furrowed a brow as the question drifted toward Killian.

“Moral support,” Killian replied.

“Ah, well, then,” Robin smiled again. “This is Roland, my son and Henry’s adoptive step-brother. Regina is still talking with Henry, but you’re welcome to come in while they finish up.”

Emma turned to Killian. “Are you okay to wait here? All of this is probably going to be crazy enough for Henry to deal with without...”

She wanted to say “adding a boyfriend to the mix”, but felt a little awkward labeling something so new to begin with, and solidifying it in front of Neal and Henry’s step-father, whom she had known for all of three seconds made her insides squirm.

“You know me, Swan,” Killian swept in before she even had to finish the sentence. “I’m always armed with a good book. I’ll wait in the car.”

“You most certainly will not,” echoed a voice from inside the imperious mansion. Mayor Mills herself walked up to the door at a fast clip. At a look from Robin, she hesitated, then relaxed slightly. “Robin was about to sit down for his soccer game and has more finger foods than a band of scavengers could eat. You’re more than welcome to wait with him while we do this.”

“Football, dear,” Robin corrected with a forced smile.

Regina’s lips twitched up almost imperceptibly and Emma got the feeling the mayor knew full well what the sport was called.

Regardless, Killian looked up at Robin with a long-suffering look in his eyes, like he understood a great, unspoken burden. Robin only clapped a hand over Killian’s shoulder and led him down the hall while Regina waved Emma and Neal inside.

Emma turned on her heels to face Regina as the woman closed the door. “I want to thank you, Regina, for letting us do this. I just want to reiterate that I don’t mean to be a threat in any way--”

Regina lifted a hand to stop her.

“It’s alright, Miss Swan. Truthfully, a few years ago, I may not have let you but,” Regina’s eyes lingered on the doorway through which Robin and Killian had just disappeared. “I’ve since come to understand the value of family.”

-0-

He was perfect.

If Henry Mills had an angry thought in his head regarding his adoption, he hid it well. He was far more interested in Emma and Neal and their lives than in hashing-out the circumstances of his birth. He was smart, too, picking up on the distance between Emma and Neal without a word being said about it. If he was disappointed at that, too, he said nothing of it. When Emma mentioned she worked in a library, Henry got so excited, she might as well have admitted she was a superhero, and the four of them spent the next hour or so discussing his favorite books.

(Emma made a mental note to read them all as soon as she got back).

He’d been adopted only days after he’d been born, and that filled Emma with relief. He hadn’t had to go through the system as she had. He’d grown up with far more than she could have given, and Regina truly cared for him as if he were biologically her own. In light of the circumstances, she couldn’t have wished for a better home for him.

The afternoon ended too quickly for all involved. Killian and Robin bonded so quickly that she nearly had to elbow him into the passenger seat and strap him in, lest Regina revoke their visitation privileges for fear of the pirate professor taking over their spare bedroom.

As for Emma, she had meant it when she said she didn’t want to interfere with Regina’s custody—Emma had lived long enough with the absence of a Henry she’d only carried nine months, she couldn’t imagine the sense of loss after knowing the full package for the better part of a decade. However, now that she had met him, she wasn’t sure she could go back to work tomorrow, business as usual, either.

Emma Swan finally had a family, and she had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter Text

If Emma thought her summer had been hectic before finding her son, squeezing in road trips to visit Henry amid all her other commitments redefined the term. To make it worse, Tink set the big date barely four months after the engagement, and, between pushing Killian to finish the manuscript before the big day and forcibly recruiting him as wedding errand boy, Emma had barely caught a glimpse of the best man in weeks. Bridezilla Tink wouldn’t even let her into the apartment building during “work hours” (which seemed to range anywhere from 7am to the crack of midnight).

So, really, she had no choice but to kidnap him.

Liam, more than happy to cut Killian loose for a night, made some scene in front of Tink just after the rehearsal part of the rehearsal dinner, asking Killian to run into the city to deal with some vague emergency with his tailor. The ruse worked just long enough for Liam to shove an unsuspecting Killian out a back door and into Emma’s waiting bug. Killian barely had the chance to buckle up before Tink came running out the door and Emma tore off. She might have felt just the slightest bit guilty if Killian hadn’t chosen precisely that moment to plant a kiss just beneath her ear.

That and Liam texted about twenty minutes later to inform her that Tink had actually laughed off the whole thing, which either meant the Bridezilla curse had lifted, or the woman had finally snapped completely and they were all as good as dead.

She hoped for the former.

-0-

Back at her apartment, Emma nestled back into the futon, lifting a spoon to her mouth and letting cold vanilla creaminess slide down her throat while she watched Buttercup and Westley embrace.

“Hear this now—I will always come for you,” said Westley.

“You know,” Killian groaned, his head nestled in her lap, “when you said ‘wedding pre-game’, I had far different expectations.”

He was still dressed in the pressed shirt and dark pants Tink had made him wear for the rehearsal dinner. (He’d shed the suit jacket and shoes before he even cleared the welcome mat outside, not that Emma was complaining about his disheveled state.)

Emma paused the movie and set her bowl down on the coffee table. “Okay, rule number one of the Lucas-Swan abode: you absolutely do not talk over the Princess Bride. Rule number two, you always watch a sappy romantic movie before a wedding to get in the right frame of mind. Lastly, how can you of all people not like the Princess Bride?”

“I like the Princess Bride,” Killian replied. “I also like alcohol. They go together wonderfully.”

“Oh no. Tink explicitly named you on the no-booze-before-the-wedding list. Apparently drunk you has a habit of goading Liam into ‘death defying stunts.’”

“It was one time and caused barely five stitches between the two of us.”

Emma only stared at him.

“Fine,” he relented, rolling his eyes. “I’ll just have to take what I can get.”

Before she could react, he snatched her bowl of ice cream from the trunk table and rolled himself forward.

“Hey!” she shouted, and tried to grab it, but he put his broad back between them. He may have only had the one hand, but it was attached to a long arm and her attempts to wrestle the bowl back only ended up with her arms curled around his.

“Mmm, I like this too,” he hummed, then settled the bowl in his lap. Emma tried to snake her arms under his to retrieve the prize, but Killian gently pinned hers to his sides, leaving him free to stick a spoon of ice cream into his mouth. As soon as it hit his tongue, his eyes widened. “What is this?”

“Vanilla ice cream—and Bailey’s.”

Killian gave a horrified frown. “And do you eat steak in front of starving dogs as well?”

Emma watched as he pointedly shoveled several more spoonfuls into his mouth, the bowl holding little more than the soupy remnants of milk and whiskey.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” she said, leaning her chin on his shoulder. “You get me another bowl of ice cream, you get the rest of the Bailey’s. But if Tink finds out, you are on your own.”

Killian leaned back into her (forced) embrace. “I don’t know, I’m rather content with our current arrangement.”

Emma sighed. “And you can have the rest of the Triple Fudge Brownie Swirl.”

“Such a diplomat,” he leaned his head back, pressed a kiss to her hairline, and let her arms loose. “I accept!”

“Such a pirate,” she huffed under her breath.

Killian beamed as he stood. “You stole me, darling. Seems we’re two of a kind now.”

Emma curled into the warm space he vacated, watching him shuffle back to the kitchen and open the freezer to root around for the promised ice cream.

“Emma, love, stop me if this is a rude question,” he called, his arm in the open freezer. “But why is there a picture of us in your freezer?”

She stuffed her face in a pillow to hide her embarrassment.

-0-

To get everything back to the futon in one trip, Killian had to hold the bottle of Irish cream between his hip and his hooked arm, a glass shoved in his pocket, while he carried their bowls, stacked, in his hand. He presented the bowls with a deep bow and she took them with a light giggle, putting his on the table for him. He settled back into his spot next to her, pouring out a healthy helping of the drink.

“So how is the lad doing?” he asked.

“Pretty well, all things considered,” she replied, testing the consistency of the ice cream with her spoon. She liked it best when it was soft and just starting to melt. “He’s on a guys-only camping weekend with Robin, Roland and Neal.”

Killian hummed into his drink, swallowing a bit in surprise. “Regina let him out of her sight?”

“It might be the last Henry gets to see of him for a while—Neal still has a life in Florida—I think Regina was feeling generous.”

“And how do you feel about it?” asked Killian, tracing patterns against his glass with his thumb.

“Confident that if Neal breaks Henry’s heart, Regina will rip Neal’s out bodily.”

“And is there any chance I get to meet Henry any time soon?” Killian kept his eyes on the still screen, a sure sign that he was more than a little nervous to ask the question. While he had gone with her on that first trip, he had yet to actually meet him.

“Regina,” Emma said slowly, unsure how Killian would take the news, “doesn’t want Henry to meet any ‘significant others’ until it’s a ‘permanent’ thing.”

Killian shrugged with his chin and took another mouthful from his glass. “Understandable. Regina barely knows me from Adam. I’m sure she’ll warm up to me eventually.”

She smiled because it was like he escaped from a rom-com movie set, but it was short lived and fell quickly from her lips. He noticed immediately, because there was also that thing where he was part mind-reader, too.

“It’s not Regina I should worry about, is it?” he asked, sitting forward to top off his glass.

It wasn’t that Emma had any qualm with Killian meeting Henry—heck, she may not have found Henry without Killian—but she agreed that Henry didn’t need to get attached to someone who might not be permanent and Emma wasn’t a big fan of “permanent” right now. She had spent ten years fighting for “permanent”, fighting for “forever”, fighting for “Tallahassee”.

And, truth be told, Emma liked this—whatever “this” was with Killian— because it was easy, it was fun. But, when the shine of it wore off of it—when money spats brewed or shoes cluttered the doorway or football took over date night—she wasn’t sure she had anything left in that tank.

Emma wasn’t sure she wanted “permanent” anymore.

“It’s just…” she sighed. “So much has happened in the last year, I’m not sure I’m mentally capable of thinking long term right now.”

She hurt him. She saw it, a quick flash of his eye, but the dart was gone as quick as it hit, swallowed by a knowing glimmer as his eyes flicked back to the movie.

“No rush, love. You’ll work it out.” Killian flashed his toothy, confident smile and took another swig. He snatched up the remote from the pile of blankets around them. “And when you do, Liam and I would love to take Henry sailing.”

“Killian--” she began, because this was serious; she didn’t want him hanging false hopes on her for a decade like she’d hung hers on Neal, didn’t want him planning a future she couldn’t promise, but he put a finger to his lips as he pressed play and the hugging forms on screen moved again.

“How can you be so sure?” Buttercup asked, holding back a sob.

“This is true love,” replied Westley. “Do you think this happens every day?”

Chapter Text

If Emma held any hostility toward Tink, she forgave it all the moment she saw the wedding venue. She knew Tink had planned a beachfront ceremony, but the sandy expanse before her looked ready for a magazine cover shoot.

White wooden chairs stood in neat rows facing an arch made of driftwood and draped with breezy fabric. The wedding party circled the gazebo, the bridesmaids in blue-green pastels and the groomsmen in sharp tuxedos. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect had Tink blackmailed a host of fairies to monitor every gust of the air or lap of the sea waves. The sun shone down bright but not hot, the wind only kicked up enough to send the bride’s airy dress floating behind her as she walked through the sand.  It tousled Killian’s dark locks, too, as he handed Liam the ring, his hook replaced with a false, gloved hand. The couple exchanged rings, the vows said over them heartfelt and sweet, and kissed to the cheers of their loved ones.

-0-

“So how exactly did she pull all this together in four months?” Emma asked Killian while a photographer took shots of the happy couple drawing hearts in the sand with their toes.

“Months?” Killian chuckled.  “Tink’s been planning this at least a year.”

“She started planning the wedding before she even asked Liam?”

Killian tugged at the glove on his false hand to check that it was secure. “Despite how Tink may embellish the story, there wasn’t a chance Liam was going to refuse. He’s been waiting for her to ask for ages.”

“Then why didn’t he propose?”

“And deny her the bragging rights? Why, Swan, what kind of man do you take him for?”

Liam waved Killian over, the photographer asking for shots of the wedding party on the beach as the sun dipped toward the horizon. He set up a scene with Tink and Liam dancing for the camera while their friends cheered on. Tink’s temper had cooled with the release of the flawless day coming together and she laughed through Liam’s joyful twirls. The photographer called some commands and the others backed away as the couple leaned in for a kiss against the pinks and oranges of the setting sun. As their lips met, it wasn’t hard for Emma to envision herself in white, Killian’s arms around her and--

Her phone buzzed in her purse.

And buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed.

She finally pulled it out to check the screen.

Neal.

She let it go to voicemail and tapped out a text that she was busy and whatever it was would have to wait.

Her phone buzzed with a response before she could drop it back in her purse.

It’s about Henry.

With one last glance at Killian, Emma put the phone to her ear and strode away.

-0-

Emma sat on the tiny porch of a small, weather-battered snack shack close to the ocean and away from the festivities. It was closed for the night, and quiet, which was why she picked the spot. She watched moonlight play off the waves and dug her feet into sand warmed by the sun that had set long ago as thoughts drifted in and out of her head.

“There you are,” came Killian’s relieved lilt, and she turned to find his dark outline walking toward her. There was a reception tent some ways behind him—the tent flaps pulled back to frame the light and laughter and chiming glasses of the feasting dinner guests. Torches stuck in the sand all around the tent posts burned against his dark outline. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” she replied. “I guess I got lost in thought out here.” She realized by a glint in the night he’d exchanged his hand for his hook again, and that he was carrying something in it.

“Might I join you?” Killian asked.

She rose and quickly dusted sand off her dress. “I don’t want to keep you from your Best Man duties.”

“Liam’s married now. If he needs help with anything else tonight, it’s nothing I want to know about.”

He was close enough now that she could make out his features in the moonlight, and when he held his hand out to her, she found a small bowl with a few scoops of ice cream and a spoon.

“You missed dinner. I had them box yours up, if you still want it, but these are rather time sensitive”

She took it from him. “Wow, I was out here that long?”

She knew she should have been hungry, but her stomach was too twisted up for anything but the comfiest of comfort foods.

“Aye,” Killian turned his attention to the bowl in his hook, using a small spoon to draw patterns in the ice cream. “Should I ask?”

Emma tapped her own spoon in her dessert a few times. “Neal is moving up here—wants to be closer to Henry. I didn’t think he had that kind of commitment in him, but something about that kid makes him—makes the both of us—want to be better people.”

Killian let the words sit, scooping a spoonful into his mouth before asking, “And what do you think of that?”

“I think it’s our second chance,” Emma replied before wrapping her lips around a mound of vanilla.

“So you’re getting back together?”

Emma almost choked on her ice cream. “What!? No! Our second chance to do right by Henry. Neal is doing good, he’s changing for Henry--and that’s good for Henry--but not good enough for me. When I left Tallahassee, I thought there was something wrong with me--“

“Swan, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know. I know that now. Because of you and Robin and David, and Ruby, and Mary Margaret, and even Henry. And talking to Neal after having some distance, I realized now in a way I couldn’t vocalize then that the problem was never me, it was Neal. He could never accept how much I loved him. Like he was unworthy. Which all sounds romantic in theory but in practice--every little bump in the road made him more skittish, thinking I was ready to dump him. He couldn’t be loyal because he couldn’t believe I could be loyal.

And when I told him I couldn’t do it anymore, do you know what I felt? Relief. A lot of suck, too, but such relief that I never want to put myself in that situation ever again.”

“I’m proud of you, Em-“

“You don’t get it, Killian,” Emma cut him off. “All this time I’ve been the one with a foot out the door. And that’s not fair to you. I can’t do this anymore,” she said, motioning between the two of them.

Killian’s hand went to her arm, just grazing her elbow, his voice low and pleading. “No, Emma, please. You can’t tell me that we don’t have something.”

“Of course we have something!” she replied.

“Then why end it?”

Emma blinked at him.

“End it? Killian, I’m not saying I want to break up. You’re the one that believed in this from the start.”

She couldn’t see it in the dim light, but by the way his body tensed, Killian’s cheeks were probably as pink as her dress. “So what are you saying?”

Emma took the bowl out of his hand and, along with hers, set them gently in the sand.

“I’m saying,” she said as she took a short step toward him, then another, digging her feet into the sand between his, and taking his hands in her own. “Killian, would you like to meet my son?”

He answered by catching her lips with his own, and she decided deep kisses under the moonlight beat sweet kisses in the waning sun. But maybe she was biased.

“Besides,” she breathed as they broke for air.“Neal couldn’t have my heart back even if I wanted to give it. Someone else stole it.”

“Really, they must have been quite the thief.”

“A pirate, actually.”

“Ah, but you stole his first. Turnabout is fair play and all that.”

This time she pulled them together, lips chasing lips, and she tilted her head for a better angle and--

Killian’s butt buzzed insistently.

He peppered her lips with a few brief kisses before pulling away and checking his screen.

“The band is taking the stage. Sorry, love. Best Man duties.”

“I thought you were done with those,” she replied, tugging him back by his tie for another kiss.

He broke away, his cheshire grin spreading. “Just this once more. And I suppose it’s incumbent upon me to confess I might have told you a bit of a white lie.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, but did not tense as he leaned over her ear.

“I finished the manuscript over a month ago.”

She leaned back to catch his eyeline. “Then what the heck have you been doing with Tink all this time?”

“Trust me, you’ll like it.”

-0-

Killian pulled Emma back toward the dining tent. A portable dance floor had been installed just outside, lit with torches stuck in the sand. A small stage sat nearby and a band was just settling into their instruments. The guests had gathered around the edges, clapping, and Killian had to make soft apologies as he gently pushed his way through. He left Emma at the edge of the dance floor, parting with one last kiss to her cheek.

Tink, hand in hand with Liam, looked relieved to see them both, and he called an apology to her as he leapt onto the stage.

One of the band members handed him a microphone and he took it, cracking a joke at his own expense and introducing the new couple to the dance floor. Liam and Tink took to the floor, all smiles, and Emma was anxious for Killian to jump down and rejoin her on the sidelines, but after he set the mic back into the stand, he turned around to speak with the band. One of them pulled a small contraption out of a shoebox and Emma stared in surprise as they pulled off Killian’s hook and swapped it out with a new appendage--one that looked like a guitar pic secured between two prongs.

He wasn’t going to… No.

Another band member brought out a guitar and, sure enough, slid it over Killian’s head.

Killian rubbed his hand along the neck of the guitar like he was greeting an old friend, then whipped around to face the audience. Liam let out a surprised grunt from below before Tink, biting her lip against a smile, tugged his attention back to her. Killian struck a chord, the band joined in, and a familiar song drifted over the dance floor. Liam and Tink started to sway as Killian’s voice filled the night air.

“You’re just too good to be true,” he started, and Emma’s heart melted, because she knew exactly how long he had been planning this stunt. “Can’t take my eyes off of you...”

It may have been Liam and Tink’s first dance as a married couple, but Killian didn’t take his eyes off Emma for the rest of the song, shooting her a particular grin and and a determined swipe of the chord every time the chorus hit, “I loooove you, baaaby!”

The  song ended too soon for Emma, the crowd cheering for both the couple and the younger Jones, who, not wanting to take too much attention from the bride and groom, bowed quickly and jumped off stage, pausing only long enough to switch his pick attachment for his hook. The rest of the audience pushed onto the dance floor, sweeping Emma and Killian on with them.

But if Emma was completely honest, they spent very little time doing much that counted as dancing, unless you counted the way they swayed this way and that while they kissed and kissed and kissed.

Chapter Text

Killian’s contract threatened death by hanging should he step out of line, but eventually Regina agreed to let him take Henry sailing on Liam’s boat. Henry, however, was a much easier sell. Killian barely had to breathe the word “pirate” before Henry adopted him as the second best stepdad-in-training ever (second only to Robin, of course.) After almost a full weekend at sea, Liam pronounced Henry a natural sailor, and Emma couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done to deserve this little stitched together family.

The four of them—Emma, Killian, Liam, and Henry (Tink having had her fill of ships for a good long while)—meandered back to the library so Henry could see where Emma worked while they waited for Regina and Robin to pick him up. Henry wanted a book about all the sailor’s knots Killian had shown him. He was in the Non-Fiction stacks, Killian helping him to pick out a good one, while Emma hovered in the AV section. Liam flipped through the new CD arrivals and made a happy noise when he pulled one from the rack. He caught Emma glancing at it—a new release from that same glam rock resurgence band his brother had borrowed ages ago, still in their rock star leather.

Liam winced, the case still in his hand. “Don’t tell Tink. She was fine with them for our wedding, but they’re not her taste in the slightest.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Wait, that was the band you had at your wedding?”

Liam nodded and handed her the CD. She’d only seen the band on-stage in passing, her attention fully on Killian for most of that time, and they had been dressed in dapper but otherwise unremarkable suits. But still, ignoring the makeup and the crazy outfits, something did look familiar.

“How did you get a hot-ticket rock group to do your wedding?” she asked.

“I didn’t, Killian did. Nice lads, really. Owed him a favor.”

Emma studied the cover again. The grungy eyeliner. The rock-god leather. The fresh-out-of-bed hair.

“Liam,” Emma questioned quietly. “Killian told me he used to be in a band, before his accident. Is this…?”

“Aye,” Liam winked and pulled out the lyrics booklet. “So you don’t know about this, then?”

He flipped it open to a song and handed it over. The lyrics were pretty, much more intricate than she’d expect from looking at the band, but aside from that she didn’t understand what she was supposed to get until Liam tapped the liner notes at the top.

Lyrics by K. Jones.

So he hadn’t been exaggerating about a shot at stardom.

And suddenly his wardrobe made so much more sense.

She made an embarrassingly squeaky sound, like an electrified chipmunk, and her eyes shot back up to Liam, who was turning red from holding his laughter in.

“Swan?” Killian asked softly, his concerned voice suddenly in her ear. He and Henry had returned from Non-fiction, Henry staring up at her from her hip, books in hand.. “Are you okay, you sounded like you were choking or something.”

Liam let out his laughter, softly, but his snorts still drew a few glances from some patrons at the study table. Killian’s eyes narrowed on his brother and Emma could tell he knew something was up.

“Oh,” the elder Jones snickered. “Just letting them in on your secret rock star life.”

Henry perked up. “Killian’s a rock star?”

“Yeah,” added Emma. “Now that your book is done, are you going to run off and seek your fame on stage?”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Tossing the lads some lyrics for a B-side hardly amounts to rock stardom, and I’m not running anywhere. We’re in a library. It’s against the rules.”

Emma bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Humility on you is almost frightening.”

“But you can’t give up,” insisted Henry with all the innocence of a ten-year old. “Wasn’t it your dream? You can’t give up on your dream!”

Emma thought Henry’s insistence had more to do with the prospect of a rock-star pseudo-step-dad than any deep philosophical influence, but she shot a patronizing smile at Killian all the same.

“Well, that’s the thing about dreams, isn’t it?” Killian replied, coming to a knee before the boy. “Sometimes they break and you can’t put them back together. But sometimes you’re the one that breaks, and when you pull yourself back together, everything’s changed. What you once wanted doesn’t seem so important anymore. And you find new dreams.”

He glanced up at Emma. “Better dreams.”

Henry frowned, clearly not completely enthralled with this answer. “Can you still teach me how to play guitar?”

Killian laughed. “Aye, lad. That I can.”

Henry, forgetting where he was, let out a woop that turned heads at the study tables. He blushed and whispered a soft, “Sorry.”

About that time he looked out the window to see Regina’s car pull up to the library and, breaking into a smile, he scampered toward the door to wait for them. Emma moved to follow him, but Killian tugged her back by the wrist. He glanced over his shoulder at Liam, who took some unspoken cue to follow after the boy.

“I was serious, you know,” he whispered as soon as Liam was out of ear-shot, “about staying.”

“I believe you,” she replied.

“Good,” he said as he pulled her back into his space. She went to hug him under his arms, but with his one hand he guided one of hers to his right coat pocket, gently slipping hers inside. She frowned slightly, wondering what he was up to, when her fingers brushed against a small velvet box and she gasped.

“Killian, is that--?”

“It’s there whenever you want it,” was all he said.

Emma cracked a smirk. “I hope it came with a good return policy.”

Killian growled and Emma let out a snicker that drew dirty glares from the study tables.

She slipped her hands behind his neck, threading her fingers through his hair before she softly giggled, “I love you too, Killian,” and pulled him down for a kiss.