#AND HE HAS HIS FIRST EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH POSTER THAT HE EVER GOT FRAMED IN HIS OFFICE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dinosaurtsukki · 3 years

Text

[ to dedicate a song ]

pairing: tsukishima kei x gn!reader

word count: 2.6k words

contains: bassist!tsukishima, violinist!reader, slight angst, fluff, if you really like fingers and people who play stringed instruments this is for you

summary: tsukishima’s love for music has always been apparent ever since you saw him play at the store you worked at. little do you know that helping him out would result in some changes for you

a/n: after months of fantasizing i finally got around to writing a bassist!tsukishima fic. also special thanks to my awesome myuts who helped me come up with ideas for this fic ! aka @scorpiosanssexy for the bassist!tsukki aesthetic, @ah-kaashi for making reader a fellow musician, and @alto-march-of-death for the classical music recommendations <3

(music pegs at the end of the fic)

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the first time you met tsukishima kei was at the music store you worked part-time at. he was hard to miss, especially with his height and light blonde hair, and even though he didn’t seem to want to attract attention, your gaze couldn’t help but be pulled in his direction.

immediately, he headed to the store section with the instruments that are free to play. it wasn’t uncommon for customers to take advantage of that area to play some music so seeing tsukishima take out the bass guitar and plug it into an amplifier didn’t concern you. but it did make you lean against the counter and keep watching as he placed his fingers along the fretboard and plucked at the strings.

‘electric guitar music’ wasn’t really your thing and that applied to their four-stringed cousins. customers who came in rarely touched the bass guitar and when they did, it was out of sheer curiosity. tsukishima fit your image, built on stereotypes, of a bass guitarist: quiet, withdrawn, stand-offish even. but when he played, it was as if the whole world was falling quiet around him. it was as if he wasn’t right smack in the middle of a music store with a lone employee behind the counter watching him.

the thing about being the only music store in a relatively small town is that everyone who comes in is a regular customer. you were pretty sure you’ve seen tsukishima come in a few times before to buy albums. but after that day he tried out the bass, he kept coming back at least once every few days to do the same thing again. neither of you really paid any mind to the other, but you were both aware of each other’s presence, especially on days when you were the only two people in the entire store.

the tall, blonde guy seemed to have quite the singular objective, so of course, it was up to you to initiate conversation.

“you’ve probably worn down those strings by now,” you said, watching him with your head on the chin as tsukishima removed the strap and placed the bass back on its stand.

“it’s not against the rules,” he muttered.

“no, but you are taking good advantage of them,” you smiled, leaning back in your seat. “relax, i’m not telling you off or anything.”

“then, what are you doing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. the question did sound defensive, but judging by how he was holding himself, he was mostly curious.

you shrugged. “you’re probably the most exciting customer who ever comes here, aside from the guy who buys madonna albums looking like he’s buying drugs.”

“oh, that guy,” tsukishima nodded with a knowing smirk on his face.

“anyway, when are you finally going to buy one?” you asked.

“you want me out that bad, huh?”

“terribly.”

“well, if you can somehow get my boss at the car wash to actually pay me for working overtime, that would be great,” tsukishima rolled his eyes.

“ah, figured,” you snorted. you followed his gaze to the row of bass guitars on display and felt a pang in your chest. you knew that look.

“hey,” you called out to him just before he left for the door. “sometimes the boss has a sale on the instruments, usually towards the end of the month.”

“really?” tsukishima asked, eyes wide.

“i could, maybe, suggest something during a staff meeting,” you shrugged. “not making any promises though but, i’ll try.”

tsukishima looked back at the guitars and then at you, looking unsure of what to say, before muttering a “thank you.”

“you can write a song about me as thanks“, you decided to tease. you imagined that he was the kind of person who would get flustered easily and for a second, you enjoyed seeing the caught off-guard look on his face. except, tsukishima recovered his composure completely and used the opportunity to launch his own attack.

“i’m afraid i’d have to know your name first,” he smirked.

in that moment, you were sure of two things: that tsukishima was an annoying prick and that someday, you were going to fall for him.

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for someone who dresses in some variation of the standard jeans and t-shirt combination, tsukishima had surprisingly colorful socks. you knew this because he still kept his socks on when he was hanging out in your room, playing the bass on your bed. he was hanging out in your room because somehow, you had invited him here a few weeks ago and you two had been doing this since. you had invited him because having tsukishima in your room was the opposite of the Worst Thing in the World, especially since he laughed at your jokes about the music store customers and knew how to fry chicken nuggets until they were perfectly crispy.

plus, he was nice to look at with his blonde hair falling over his forehead while he leaned forward to practice the same riff again and again on the bass guitar that he was eventually able to buy. seeing that guitar in his hands gave you a sense of pride. you helped make this happen and now, you get to listen to tsukishima play.

“your timing was off again,” you said, turning around with your arm resting on the back of your chair.

“tch,” tsukishima clicked his tongue, brushing his bangs back from his face. “i was pretty sure i had it just now.” you smiled sympathetically and stood up from your chair before walking across the room. tsukishima’s eyes followed where you went until you placed an object in front of him.

“what’s this?”

“it’s called a metronome,” you said, pulling the needle in the center just so and letting it tick freely to a steady beat. “it will help you stay on time.”

“it sounds annoying,” tsukishima quirked an eyebrow.

“it is annoying,” you smiled broadly. “now get on with it.”

you had never seen tsukishima look more stressed the way he did now while practicing with the metronome. he even practiced standing up at the corner of your room. frustration was written on his face and yet, he persisted.

for a minute, you saw yourself standing there, eyes concentrated at your sheet music while you played your violin. years ago, you used to play without a single care in the world, just like tsukishima. now, all you were left with was an ache in your fingertips and a violin in its case, gathering dust on a top shelf.

“how was that?” tsukishima asked. you smiled a little, realizing that he trusted your opinion.

“much better,” you nodded approvingly.

“really?” he raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. you giggled at the look on his face.

“really, really.”

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tsukishima knew you were keeping a secret. not in a sense that you were deliberately hiding something from him, more like you were deliberately not telling him about something. it started when he caught the longing expression on your face while you watched him play.

“do you, wanna try it out?” tsukishima asked, gesturing at his bass and thinking that maybe you wanted to try playing it.

“what? what makes you think that?” you frowned.

“just... forget it,” tsukishima shook his head hurriedly and going back to working on the riff he was practicing. this time, he let himself be distracted by taking in the details of your bedroom that he was now so familiar with. you had your laptop and other bits of notebooks and stationery on your desk. your small collection of plush animals on a shelf above your bed. some pictures in frames of you with family members and friends on top of your bookshelves. there was a vanity in the corner of the room with different beauty products that tsukishima could now name.

but he couldn’t help but feel as if there was something missing, that there was a part of yourself you had deliberately removed from your room. sometimes, tsukishima felt the same way about you too. sure, your head was chock-full of semi-useless facts and you had the best barbecue sauce recipe for chicken nuggets but, tsukishima still couldn’t put a finger on who you were.

tsukishima’s gaze traveled to the movie posters on your wall until they reached one of the upper shelves. right beside a couple of books was what unmistakably looked like an instrument case.

after that, he started to notice other things too: the fact that you had a metronome that even had a sticker of your name on the bottom, how you could easily tell when he was on or off-beat, even the indifferent look on your face whenever tsukishima recommended a band for you to listen to.

“you’re a musician too, aren’t you?” he decided to finally ask. the two of you were sitting on the floor, your backs leaning against your bed. tsukishima’s knees were pulled up to his chest because of how little floor space there was.

you tensed up at the question before sighing. “well, you were going to find out soon enough.”

“you weren’t exactly hiding it either,” tsukishima muttered. and, acting on impulse, he reached out to your left hand that was resting on top of your knee. they were noticeably smaller than his own hands, but tsukishima couldn’t help but notice how your nails were always neatly cut short. then, he ran his index lightly over your fingertips. it was barely detectable, but tsukishima was familiar enough with the callouses from playing string instruments to know that you once had those too.

all this time, tsukishima couldn’t tell if you were breathing. heck, he couldn’t tell if he was breathing either. the moment felt fragile and at the same time the tiniest bit unbreakable. gently, he set your hand back down on your knee.

“what made you stop?” he ventured to ask.

“when you’re young you don’t care about whether you’re a genius or not, when you get a bit older you strive for that perfection and greatness,” you said, staring down at a spot on the floor. “then, when you get much older than that, you realize that you’re just a normal person.”

“but did you stop enjoying it? playing?” tsukishima asked.

“when i realized that i wasn’t really good enough to listen to, i just... stopped,” you said. tsukishima knew he’d never be able to describe the sadness written on your face. he glanced at his bass, propped upright on the pillows on your bed, and wondered how much longer he would have spent visiting the music store just to be able to play.

“i’ll listen to you,” he said.

“tsuki--”

before you could respond, tsukishima stood up and crossed your room in a few short strides before carefully picking up the instrument case on your shelf and making his way back to you. carefully, he placed the case on your bed. instantly, tsukishima recognized it as a violin case. he smiled softly at the stickers decorated along its sides and carefully wiped away the dust before finally unclasping it.

tsukishima didn’t even need to look at you to know that you had that same, longing expression on your face at the sight of your violin. he picked up the instrument, carefully and with both hands, before giving it to you. you didn’t say anything. it was only when he was about to get your bow that he heard your voice.

“stop,” you sat up with a start. tsukishima panicked, thinking that he had maybe pushed you too far, when you said “hold it by the far end,” gesturing with your chin. “don’t... you’re not supposed to touch the hair.”

tsukishima obeyed, picking up the bow carefully by its small handle before giving it to you. for a while, you just held your violin in your hands and tsukishima sat back down, letting you take it all in. he remembered the first time he bought his bass and took it home, how he laid it gently on the bed and just looked at it, occasionally running his fingers down the shiny fretboard and brand new strings.

“i haven’t played in a long time,” you said. “to say that i’m pretty rusty is an understatement.”

“do you think i’d be able to tell if you were playing well or not?” tsukishima snorted.

“i guess not,” you chuckled slightly before standing up. tsukishima watched as you straightened your back, eyes facing forward, before positioning the violin in place under your chin, your left fingers on the fretboard, and your right hand holding the very end of your bow.

tsukishima had never seen you look more alive than when you were playing your violin again. your brow was knit slightly in concentration, your eyes closed and tsukishima could tell you were purely focused on the sound you were producing. it wasn’t just your fingers and wrist at work but your whole body, leaning back when you hit the high notes and bending forward when transitioning to the lower notes. he wasn’t much of a classical music fan, tsukishima couldn’t tell if you were playing ‘correctly’ or if you were making any mistakes, but he thought you played beautifully.

nothing could distract tsukishima from seeing the shine in your eyes and that brought a smile to his face. and all he could think was ‘i’m going to write a song for them one day.’

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band concerts were way different from the classical music concerts you were used to. even if it was a fairly small one at a local bar, you still weren’t used to the feeling of other people’s bodies pressing against yours. “you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” tsukishima had said. no way were you missing any of his and his band’s gigs.

“thank you all so much for coming,” kuroo, their lead vocalist greeted everyone. you clapped and cheered with the rest of them. he was undeniably the fan favorite and you could easily see why. however, you could never tear your gaze away from the bass guitarist who just stood a little off to the side. you remembered when tsukishima was still a little shy about playing onstage and how he’d often keep his head down, even when they weren’t playing. but slowly, he had grown a bit more comfortable. you couldn’t help but notice the small smirk on his face when someone screamed his name.

‘cocky bastard,’ you thought with a smile on your face.

“now, we have a little, surprise ending number,” kuroo grinned into the microphone at the wave of cheers. “unfortunately, it won’t be performed by me. but, i think some of you will especially like this.” with a sly wink, kuroo stepped away from the microphone and to yours and everyone’s surprise, tsukishima walked up to replace him.

“hello,” he spoke into the mic, earning more than a few screams from the audience. you couldn’t speak, admiring the way the stage lights made the sweat on his arms glisten. he had grown his hair out over the past few months and often styled it to look messy for shows. biting your lip, you remembered the first time you met tsukishima back at the music store.

“so, i’m not much of a songwriter,” tsukishima admitted. “and, this is my first time writing a song and performing it. and it’s... dedicated to someone.” you were pretty sure that that confession earned more than a few cheers from the audience, but you couldn’t hear anything with your gaze focused on tsukishima’s. his amber eyes found yours easily amongst the crowd and the corner of his mouth lifted up in a smile.

you were right in thinking that tsukishima was an annoying bastard and that you were going to fall for him. but never in your wildest dreams did you think that he was actually going to dedicate a song.

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music pegs (aka the music pieces i had in mind for some of the scenes):

y/n’s violin piece: chopin nocturne op. 9 no. 2

tsukishima’s song at the end: slow dance with you (ok i know it’s a wlw song but i just love the idea of anyone singing it for me and real-person bassists)

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @montys-chaos @miyumtwins @strawberriimilkshake @pocubo @sugawara-sweetheart @akaashisbabydoll @laure-chan @therainroguefanfiction @atetiffdoesart @stephdaninja @oikaw-ugh @charliefredb @dramaqueenweeb1469 @tremblinghearts @applepienation @doodleniella @haikyuu-my-love @waitforitillwritemywayout @kattykurr @atsumu-brainrot @goodfoodxoxoxo @ah-kaashi @guardianangelswings

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cauliflowercounty · 4 years

Text

You’re Not Alone Pt. II

Warnings: None! Some Fluff/A Little Angst. Enjoy!

Clyde’s been home for a while, but doesn’t have a job yet. The reader sees a listing on a bulletin board and makes a move.

----

Adjusting to life without his hand was frustrating for Clyde. In the first few days he was awake and still in the hospital, his arm was still very swollen and hurt, but you were with him as much as you could be. He appreciated that a lot and loved finally having you near him again after months of wishing, infrequent letters and day dreaming. You only left for your work and to get a change of clothes while he was in recovery. You were there when the doctors said he could be released from the hospital because there hadn’t been any complications with the operation and no blood clots, thank goodness. The doctors told him he couldn’t be in better health, but whenever the doctors told him that, Clyde always thought “besides the arm” to himself. After being released from the hospital in the car hime, Clyde was excited to go home for the first time in a long while, but the thought also made him sad because of how different things would be.

The moment he stepped back into the trailer, he almost started to cry. Nothing had changed. The furniture was still the same. The decor was a tiny bit different. There was a new framed photo of you and him on the shelf, the TV was newer, and there was a vase of fresh flowers with a welcome home card in the coffee table. Even with these slight differences, it was almost as if he’d never left, but he knew that wasn’t true because he had a missing hand to show for it.

“Welcome home,” you’d said to him, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek with a warm smile. “What are you thinking about, Clyde?” you asked, knowing he’s got something heavy in his mind.”

“Darlin’ I don’ know if I can do this...,” he replied. “I feel so weak... I don’t think I can ever take care of myself... Nobody’s gonna want a one-armed employee.”

“You aren’t weak, Clyde. I know you and you are one of the strongest people I know. I know it feels strange and a bit hopeless now, but it’ll be a process. We’ll work this out together. I’m sure of this. One step at a time, Clyde,” you reassured him, saddened that he was hurting. You’d led him back to the bedroom where you snuggled all through the night for the first time in forever. Clyde felt like he never wanted to let go.

After that day, you both rolled into a routine. You’d both get up. Clyde would take his meds and take a shower, taking extra care on cleaning his stump. He’d put on his compression garment and change clothes. All of this was an adjustment and it took a while to get used to doing with only one hand.come out to the kitchen and help you prepare breakfast, smiling each time you’d make the bacon extra crispy like he likes it. After eating together, you’d go off to work and kiss him goodbye. You’d come home after work and tell him about your work stories, which he always listened to intently, laughing at your jokes. Of course, you’d always as him how his day was, too, and he shared as much as he could. Sometimes, he’d go to the store or try a new hobby, all of which almost never worked out. Sometimes, Mellie or Jimmy would come by to check on him, but he days were long for Clyde. You’d noticed he was getting twitchy and bored, and you begun to think of ways to change that.

“Have a great day, y/n!” your boss says as you leave work after your shift. You wave at her as you head for the door, but a poster on the bulletin board catches your eye.

“Hey, Mariana?” you call as you step closer to get a better look. “Can I take this poster? I think Clyde might wanna look at it.”

“Go for it,” she replies, walking away. You say your thanks as you remove the paper from the board, folding it neatly. As you drive home, you’re smiling to yourself, trying to think of a way to tell Clyde your idea. Soon enough, you pull into the driveway and park your car. You rush inside to see Clyde watching the TV, beer in hand.

“Darlin’!” he smiles as you come over, giving him a proper kiss on the mouth. He pulls you down to sit next to him on the couch, and you wrap your arms around him “How was your day?”

“Work was normal, but I have something to tell you,” you say. “Can I turn down the TV a bit?”

“Must be serious,” Clyde jokes as you reach for the remote.

“So. I was leaving work and I saw... this on the notice board. Take a look,” you say, producing the poster from your pocket. Clyde puts down his beer on the table and takes it from you and unfolds the paper, reading carefully. “The bar off the highways’s owner is retiring and he’s selling the space. I was thinking we could go and check it out tomorrow for our Saturday outing.”

“Why?” Clyde asks, a bit puzzled.

“I thought you might be interested in buying it. Getting back to work. I’ve noticed you seem sad lately. As much of a quiet stoic man you are, I know you like to see people. And I know that you’ve always wanted to learn to make a good drink,” you say, trying to convince him.

“I don’t know, Darlin’... My hand and all... I’m afraid no one ‘d come to a bar owned by someone like me, especially if I’m the bartender ‘n’ all,” he mumbles, looking down at his prothesis and raising it to you. You sigh.

“Clyde... I know it’s hard, but you’ve adapted to doing things so well so quickly. You’re a quick learner and I’d think this would be really fun. I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but at least consider it? I don’t like seeing you all mopey,” you smile, wrapping your arms back around him, tucking your head in the crook of his neck.

“Alright...”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll come and take a look at the space tomorrow. You’re right. I should be gettin’ out more and this is just a first step,” Clyde agrees.

“Yes!” You exclaim, kissing him again.

“I think this’ll be really good for me,” Clyde smiles. “Thanks for suggestin’ it.”

~~~

After you both get up, you head out in the car towards the bar. As he pulls up to the bar, you can see Clyde’s getting more excited. Stepping out of the car, you both walk up the stairs outside and go up to the door where Clyde knocks on it. You smile at him and encouraging look and he takes your hand in his. An old man opens the door wearing a worn down grey shirt with a couple holes in it and a pair of army green cargo shorts.

“Hey, are you John?” Clyde asks.

“Yep,” the man says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “

“We saw your flyer about sellin’ your space. Is it still available?” Clyde asks as John eyes him a bit, which makes Clyde worry. Had he already sold the bar? Were they too late?

“You look familiar,” John says.

“I do?” Clyde asks, almost squeaking.

“You’re one of them Logans, ain’t ya?” John exclaims, pointing a finger at Clyde, and Clyde nods his head, thinking he already blew it.

“I remember... A while ago your brother Jimmy came in and told me all about his brother in the military... Seems you’re that brother,” John explains, a slight smile on his face as he recalls his encounter.

“Right you are and this is my girlfriend, y/n” Clyde responds, relieved that that that interaction didn’t turn south.

“Come on in, you both. Don’t be shy,” John says, leading the way. Inside you immediately see the bar that sticks out from the wall near the entrance, but the space opens up to reveal a large space with the occasional wood column that includes some sitting areas and a couple of pool tables. The walls are wood and have beer posters on them. Some of the surfaces look a bit dusty.

“Nice bar you got, John,” Clyde comments.

“Yeah, She got some good bones. The location’s good, too. There’s people who come in as regulars and then the passer by from the highway. It’s got AC an’ everythin’” John explains, pointing around the place to show it off. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s great,” Clyde smiles. “What’s your impression, Darlin’?”

“I can see you being really happy here Clyde... but it’s your decision, really,” you smile. “How do you feel?”

“I feel good. Hey John, can I see the back?” Clyde asks, pointing to a door marked with the sign “employees only.” John nods and beckons Clyde behind the bar. You wave him on to tell him to go without you. He disappears with John through the door, leaving you to walk around the main space.

As you look around, you can really start to see how Clyde can make the space his own. He could put some neon signs up and add some nice lighting to the back, so it’s not so dark. You look to the side and see a dusty old jukebox that hasn’t been used in 10 years, but you can imagine Clyde fixing it up and filling it with Bob Seger, classic rock, and old country music. The chairs are a bit run down, but you know someone who can reupholster them at a discount.

You look back to see John and Clyde emerging from the back with smiles on their face. They’re laughing and John sticks his hand out for Clyde to shake, and Clyde takes it eagerly.

“I’ll be hearin’ from you Mr. Logan,” John says. “Travel safe.”

Clyde rushes back to you and takes your hand excitedly, taking you back out to the car. As you climb in, you can feel the happiness radiating from Clyde.

“What happened?” you ask, knowing what happened already, but wanting to hear it from him. You smile, looking at the lovable goofy smile Clyde has plastered on his face.

“I just bought a bar,” Clyde says.

“Oh my god! Clyde! That’s so great!” you exclaim.

“... and I have you to thank for it. Thanks for encouraging me to do it. I got his phone number in my pocket and we’ll talk paperwork in the next few days.”

“That was fast! I didn’t expect you to make a decision today! Clyde I’m so happy for you,” you gasp, pulling him towards you for a hug. He wraps his arms around you and kisses you gently on the cheek. You giggle as you feel his beard tickle you as it brushes against your skin.

“I think this was a good decision,” Clyde smiles. “This means I’ll be workin’ again... and maybe you could come work with me too?”

“Really? You’re serious?” you say, a bit surprised. “You want me tow work with you?”

“Of course. I love you and I’ve already spent too much time away from you and people who work at bard have crazy late hours ‘n’ all...” he reasons.

Clyde! Of course I’ll come wrk at the bar with you!” you say to him, grabbing the sides of his head, kissing him on the lips this time. You break away, both of you smiling like idiots. “So, Mr Business owner. What’s next?”

“I was thinkin’ a name for it,” Clyde replies.

“Oh? Did you have any ideas?”

“Duck Tape,” Clyde says after a few moments of silence and the name makes you both grin, knowing this’ll be the best thing you’ll have done together yet.

#logan lucky #adam driver #clyde logan #clyde logan x reader

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Note

How about a twist on neighbors for a prompt? Killian is David's neighbor, and that's how he meets Emma! You can fill in the rest! Love your stories!

He bought a house. He bought a damn house. It’s a bit of a fixer upper, which he definitely spends his weekdays and weekends and occasionally late nights (see: early mornings) fixing up, but he takes pride in watching the rotting siding replaced with fresh white panels and the small windows taken out only to be swapped with large floor to ceiling windows that allow him to look out at the neighborhood park that’s behind his house, children running and people walking their dogs always in his view but just out of grasp for his own life. Just outside the door really.

(Eventually he gets around to replacing the doors, French paneling with brass knobs that match the hanging lamps that grace the porch’s ceiling.)

He probably should have started with the interior, but something about being able to get the outside done in the spring and the summer called to him, not wanting to freeze to death building the porch railing when fall and winter come to pass.

That’s how he finds himself sitting on his mattress, which is decidedly not on a bed frame, in a room that’s covered in dust from construction with three different colors of paint sitting in gallon cans in front of him.

“Well bloody hell,” Killian says to himself, because he most definitely lives by himself, “I hate all of these. Who knew I cared so much about damn paint colors?”

Because he does care about paint colors, he rises from his mattress and throws on his black leather jacket over his plaid button up so that he can go to Home Depot to peruse their selection. He’s pretty sure the guy at the paint counter knows him by name at this point.

He’s pretty sure that he knows all of the paint colors by name now.

It’s only the slightest bit pathetic.

A slight chill catches in the air when he walks out of the door, but he doesn’t mind. October is the best time of the year to him, and just because he doesn’t want to freeze to death while working on the exterior of his house doesn’t mean he hates the briskness of the air as he walks outside or goes for runs in the morning.

Three hours later he’s returning home with a simple light gray gallon of paint, just anxious to put something down and finally be able to have a bedroom that’s more than just a mattress with some sheets. It’s unfinished, and that bothers him more than he’s willing to admit. He’s tired of things in his life being unfinished, incomplete, and unsatisfactory.

He’s Killian Jones, a currently self-employed architect who’s also a thirty-four year old British expat now living in a seaside town in Maine because he couldn’t stomach the thought of living in England anymore. That’s where his girlfriend died in a car accident and where his brother died serving in the Royal Navy three months later. It’s like the entire country went dark after that, even the brightest of lights fading into a dreary gray that he saw even when looking out at the vibrant blue of the ocean.

He’s not proud of himself for how he acted after their deaths, not proud of the drinking or the women or how he’d hole himself up in his flat and not bother to shower for days, only bothering to when the smell of rum became too much for even him.

His mourning period didn’t last for long…well, that’s a lie. He’s still in mourning, but his feeling sorry for himself didn’t last long. Milah and Liam wouldn’t want him to be some despondent shell of a man, so he decided to move on. He just had to do that by actually moving.

So after a hell of a lot of paperwork, he’s settled down in a small town in Maine with a name straight out of a children’s book. Storybrooke. It’s the oddest little place, and he’s not sure how he found it. He was looking in Portland, but then he found this place that was right over the water and small enough to be quaint but large enough that it wouldn’t be overwhelming for him.

He’s been here for a few months and eventually he has to find a job, but right now he’s living on settlement money from Liam and savings that he had been hoarding away in the hopes that he and Milah would find a home together. It didn’t happen.

They’ve left him with money and memories, but all he really does is miss them.

A job would likely help that, a steady career to get back to designing houses and focusing on the mathematics of it all, but for now, he’s fine simply focusing on his own house and making it a home.

It means that he doesn’t have to leave his house much, which means that the only people he really knows are the employees at the Home Depot right outside of town.

Sad? Yes.

Pathetic? Yes.

Does he mind? No.

Oh, that’s kind of a lie though. He knows his neighbors, David and Mary Margaret Nolan, who are basically the poster couple for what neighbors should be. They don’t make too much noise, even when they have their weekly dinners with friends that he’s discovered are on Wednesdays (but not this previous Wednesday oddly enough), and Mary Margaret brings him leftovers while David offers to help with some of his construction projects when the two of them are tending the lawn at the same time he is.

That’s where he finds them this morning as he walks back to the house, Mary Margaret with a sun hat and gloves on as she pulls weeds while David mows the grass. He gives them a nod and a smile, thinking that he can just slip away and into his house without much else, but Mary Margaret Nolan is nothing if not persistent.

“Killian,” she calls, slipping off her gloves and standing from the ground, wiping her hands on her jeans before walking over to where he’s placing his paint cans down.

“Good morning, milady,” he greets, and like clockwork the woman giggles as blush paints her pale cheeks a rosy red.

She’s rather fond of when he calls her that. David is not.

“Good morning, Killian. I know that this is last minute, and I’m sure you’ve got Saturday plans, but David and I are having friends over for David’s birthday tonight and we’d really like for you to come.”

“Oh,” he reaches to scratch behind his ear, polite smile forced on his lips, “that’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“But we want you there! It’s just a dinner. I’m cooking the lasagna you said you liked so much last time, so if for nothing else, you have to come for the food.”

She’s looking at him with a smile and wide green eyes that are practically pleading for him to say yes, and he’s really got no reason to say no. He should have friends. He should branch out. There’s no harm in talking to others, he reminds himself. He’s fine living his life alone after so much loss, but he can’t. He’s experienced great love in his life, and as much as it’s cost him, he knows that something is missing without it.

It’s just dinner. He can do this. After all, he did come here to start a new life, didn’t he?

“If you insist, lass. I’d love to come.”

“Perfect,” she claps her hands, “and don’t worry about bringing a gift. Just bring yourself around six thirty, okay?”

He nods his head in agreement before lifting the paint cans and walking into his own home, so empty compared to the brightness of the Nolan’s. He’s getting there. He really is. It’s simply going slowly.

He finds himself not thinking about the party as the day progresses, getting lost in the repetitive motions of rolling paint on the walls and the sounds of the music emanating from his phone’s speakers. But then his phone is ringing to let him know that it’s now six in the evening, and he needs to shower and find something to wear that’s better than the paint covered sweatpants he has on.

Deciding on just his trusty black jeans and a t-shirt, plaid button down left open because that’s all he’s really comfortable with, he gets dressed and runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up instead of laying flat on his head. Mary Margaret said not to bring anything, but that feels wrong, so he grabs a potted plant that he was going to put in his yard tomorrow and takes it with him as he walks next door.

Their front door is open, so he walks in, hearing the noise of people chatting and laughing in what he soon discovers is the kitchen. He doesn’t know how to interrupt and make his presence known, everyone in the room obviously well acquainted with each other. He definitely shouldn’t even be here.

“They don’t bite,” a female voice says next to him, and he whips his head around to, and he’s not exaggerating here, see one of the most attractive women he’s ever seen smiling up at him. She’s got blonde hair that runs all the way down her back and green eyes that remind him of his mother’s. He’s immediately taken by her, and that hasn’t happened since…it hasn’t happened in awhile. “But I understand. It can be kind of intimidating if it’s your first time at a Nolan house party.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“There might as well be a sign that says ‘it’s my first time’ flashing on your forehead. But don’t worry, we’ll be gentle.”

He can’t help but laugh at her innuendo, his eyes lighting up for the first time in a long time, as he snakes his free hand around to offer it in greeting. “Killian Jones, neighbor.”

Her eyes seem to light in recognition, but he’s not sure why. Maybe the Nolans have talked about him before. “Emma Swan,” she takes his hand, shaking it twice before releasing it, “friend.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Swan, friend.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Killian Jones, neighbor.”

He’s not sure what else to say, his conversational skills sorely lacking as of late, but he’s saved by the metaphorical bell when Mary Margaret spots them, hugging both of their necks before taking the plant out of his hands and the gift he didn’t notice out of Emma’s and leading the two of them further into the house, Emma veering off on her own to kiss a short middle-aged man on his cheek, throwing her head back in laughter at whatever the man said. He has no right to know her relationships with the people in this house, but he finds himself watching her for the rest of the evening.

She’s vibrant, obviously full of joy and fervor, things he’s sorely lacking in his own life, and he’s fascinated by her. He’s fascinated by the way she throws her entire head back when laughing, hair cascading down her back as snorts (she snorts) pass through her lips. He’s fascinated by how she seems to be the life of the party, always telling some kind of story, her hands wildly gesturing as she speaks, captivating the room. Or maybe that’s just him. He’s not really sure because he’s so distracted by her that he has to make a pointed effort of not paying her any attention just so he doesn’t seem like some kind of creep.

The last thing he needs is to be painted as the town creep when he’s trying to branch out a little bit.

It’s a nice night, the lasagna is as good as he remembers, and he finds that he likes spending time with a large group of people after spending so much time alone. It does get to be too much for him at one point, but instead of excusing himself from the party entirely, he just slips out to sit on the Nolan’s front porch swing, fall air surrounding him as he takes a moment to breathe.

“Hey,” Emma greets, seemingly having popped up from nowhere. “Are you okay, Killian Jones, neighbor?”

“Aye, just getting some air.” He nods at the empty seat next to him before he can even consider his actions. “Would you like to sit?”

She tilts her head as a soft smile graces her face, silently accepting his invitation before she sits down, her thigh lightly brushing his. That’s not distracting at all.

“So your first time around a big crowd in awhile, huh?”

How the hell could she possibly know that? He can’t help but scratch his beard, trying to figure out how to answer that question without delving into some kind of deep, emotional territory.

“You seem to be very perceptive of my first times tonight, lass.”

“Well, you do have the look of a virgin.”

Like hell he does. He’s about to say something about it, but then he looks over to her and she’s smiling at him, a full grin that causes the dimple in her chin to be more prominent. She’s beautiful and kind and…light, and he’s out of his league just by sharing this porch swing with her.

“I understand what it’s like to be new to a crowd.” She’s staring over at his house, the porch lights flickering on with the timer, and he wonders if she knows that’s his house and what she thinks of it. Why would he even care? “Let’s just say that I was going through a horrendous break up when Marg and David came into my life, and it’s terrifying coming into their house and being surrounded by people who know each other and are disgustingly happy with their lives.”

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know why she’s offering up this information to him. So he doesn’t respond, just continues to stare straight ahead as the swing lightly sways, their feet pushing them at the same pace.

“So that’s your house right there?”

Apparently she does know that’s his house.

“Aye.”

“It’s nice. You’ve made fast progress on the upgrades.”

He nudges her thigh with his own, a surge of playfulness coursing through him. “So you’ve been watching me, Swan?”

She nudges his thigh back. “I’ve been watching your house. I’m an interior designer, so I’ve got an unnatural obsession with how houses look.”

“Huh,” he scoffs, laughing a bit to himself at the similarities. “I’m an architect, so I understand. The obsession with how houses look, I mean. That place is basically my baby.”

“It’s beautiful. I’d love to know the rest of your plans for it.”

The words are out of his mouth before he even has a chance to stop them. “Would you like to see?”

She tilts her head to look at him. “If you murder me in there, David and Mary Margaret will hear my screams.”

“Damn. I’ll have to think of other nefarious plans.”

“Alright Jones, take me to your humble abode.”

So by some weird happenstance or miracle he ends up in his kitchen/dining room/living room (it’s an open floor plan, okay?) with a woman he just met who’s inspecting his fireplace, her hands tucked into the back pocket of her rather delightful jeans as she stands on her tiptoes to give her enough height to look above the mantle.

“Killian, this place is fantastic. I mean, it’s still totally bare bones, but you’re doing a great job. I just can’t believe you’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor for months. My bedframe was the first thing I had moved into my apartment.”

“I just hadn’t found the right bedframe yet. I haven’t figured out what I want. This is the first time I’m designing a home that’s for me instead of someone else, and I want it to be perfect.”

“Do you want help?”

“Help?”

“Yeah, like, I decorate homes for people for a living. I can help you find the things that are right for you.”

“Lass, I don’t really want to be paying extra for anything, as great as I’m sure you are.”

“I’d do it for free.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to bump Killian Jones, neighbor, up to Killian Jones, friend. Plus, no man your age should be sleeping on the floor.”

“How do you know how old I am?”

“I mean, I don’t, but I’d have to guess you’re at least my age.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty eight.”

He laughs, swaying just the slightest bit closer to her. “I wish I was twenty eight. I’m thirty four.”

“Oh damn,” she chuckles, “then you really shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor. Your back could go out any minute.”

He reaches to scratch behind his ear because her laugh, even when she’s not snorting, is one of the most adorable sounds he’s ever heard. He told himself he wouldn’t fall for another woman, not after the last one, but he can already tell he’s in trouble here. But no, he won’t be charmed by one night. he won’t let himself fall. They can be acquaintances, friends maybe if what Emma says is true.

He can simply let himself talk to people again without the fear of having them ripped away from him.

“We should go back to the party. Wouldn’t want to miss the cake.”

“Oh it won’t be a cake. It’ll be this nasty pie that Marg makes.”

“If it’s so nasty,” he starts, he locking his front door behind the two of them and ghosting his hand over the small of her back as they make their way down the front porch steps, “then why does she make it?”

“Because she made it for David for his birthday the first year they were together and because Prince Charming over there can’t hurt a fly, he told her that he loved it. So now we’re all subjected to it every year.”

“Wow,” he whistles as they step around Mary Margaret’s rose bushes, “that’s either decidedly romantic or decidedly stupid.”

“I like to think you can’t be romantic without a little bit of stupidity.”

“Are you a romantic, Swan?”

They’ve now reached the Nolan’s front porch, and she stops at the step above him, making them eye level with each other.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

And then she’s walking away and into the house while he’s left saying, “perhaps I would,” to the flowers in the garden.

It’s not until the next day that he realizes he never got Emma’s number. For the help decorating and designing his home, of course. Not for anything else. But despite that fact, he can’t bring himself to ask either David or Mary Margaret for it, not wanting them to get the wrong impression about him. He thinks about it, though, every day that he sees them that week, but the words never pass through his lips.

So he spends his week as he normally does, working from what’s supposed to be the guest bedroom but is instead his office and the only fully completed room of the house. In the evenings he finishes painting the rest of the walls and moves onto applying backsplash in the kitchen. He’s waiting for someone to come in with his new marble countertops. That’s one of the few things he can’t install himself, but he figures he can at least work on the backsplash.

Things are the way they are in his life, and he doesn’t expect anything about that to change and that’s exactly where he goes wrong. Friday evening he’s sitting on his couch watching television (yes, he does at least have those two things) when there’s a knock at his door. He’s not yet got curtains on the windows so he can clearly see that Emma Swan is standing outside of his front door with her bottom lip between her teeth and a box of pizza in her hands.

What in the world?

“Hi,” she squeaks when he opens the door, and it’s possible that he’s even more smitten with her than he was last week because the beanie gracing her head has a pom pom bigger than her face attached to the top.

He is not supposed to be smitten with her. He can’t be. He can’t get hurt again.

He is undoubtedly charmed by her.

But not smitten.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Swan?”

“I’m sure you have plans or whatever, but I was just bringing David and Mary Margaret some pizza from the shop next to me while I was on my way home from work and I wanted to check in with you, see if you were still interested in my services.”

He cocks his eyebrow, and he’s not even ashamed when he says it the way he does, voice deep and low as he enunciates all the right words. “I’m most definitely interested in your services.”

She snorts, and he really likes that snort, and he’s glad he didn’t just come off as a creep because he definitely could have. “I’m not that kind of pizza delivery service, but I see where your mind is, Jones.”

“Would you like to come in and discuss your very wholesome services?”

“Well, that’s what I was aiming for.”

He doesn’t quite know how he got to the point of Emma Swan, this woman who he met not a week ago, sitting on his kitchen counter talking about crown molding and window features and if he prefers modern versus classic design, but here he is answering all of her questions and putting in more effort into decorating this house than he was ever planning on (and he was planning on a lot). It’s nice getting to go back and forth in what is obviously both of their elements, the two of them bouncing ideas off of each other while they eat the pizza she brought over and drink the water he had in his fridge. He wishes that he had something else to offer her, but he hasn’t been to the grocery store in two weeks. Sometimes things like that get away from him when he’s focusing on his projects.

Emma is just as charming as she was the first time he met her, even if he adamantly does not agree with her on her light fixture choices, something she’s sure to let him know. But it’s easy to get caught up in the simplicity and ease of it all. It’s been a long time since he was comfortable talking to someone with no awkward gaps in conversation, and he lets himself get carried away as they make all kinds of plans, some of which he knows he can’t afford until he gets a job again, but he lets Emma take notes, her sprawling handwriting littering a notebook that she leaves on the countertop before she eventually goes home that night.

And right at the top is her number with a note to meet him at Geppetto’s Furniture at ten in the morning on Monday.

-/-

“So do you like this frame?” Emma asks him while he sips on his coffee, eyes scanning over all of the bedframes in front of him.

“I like the color, but I worry about the headboard.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to knock my head on wood.”

Emma runs her tongue over her bottom lip, words very obviously on the tip of her tongue, but instead of she holds her tongue and doesn’t take the bait. He was kind of hoping she would. She’s amusing when she gets a little flustered.

“Okay, so beds where you can knock your hard head against them are a no go, so I’m thinking a fabric covered headboard.”

“Swan,” he protests as she takes off to a different part of the store, the heels of her boots clicking on the ground, “I really don’t need a frame right now.”

“You are a grown ass man. You cannot keep sleeping on the floor. You need a bed.”

For hours, Emma guides him around this store, the two of them testing out frames and dining chairs even though he doesn’t have a table yet. But they look at tables too, the ones already made and the book of customized ones that the owner of the store apparently handcrafts with his son. And as if it’s not overwhelming enough, Emma guides him to the backroom of the store where he meets Marco and his son August, the two of them more than excited to see Emma. He thinks they must work together frequently for how well they know each other, but if the look in August’s eyes is any indication, he and Emma either dated or August wants them to date. He’s always been good at reading people, and from what he can tell, August is not happy that he’s there.

But he is there, and he sits and talks to Marco about the house and his plans, letting Emma interrupt with her visions that immediately gets the two of them off on their own little tangents about things to do. Somehow by the end of it he’s bought a bedframe, ordered a customized table and chairs, and he’s getting a swing to put on his back deck so that he can spend some time in his yard even though it’s mostly the public park.

He most likely needs a fence sometime, but that would hamper with the view.

Marco will most likely end up making one for him.

All of that is after one day with Emma and as the weeks go by, he ends up accumulating more and more things, his house suddenly full of furniture even if some of the walls still need a second coat of paint from his original painting. It’s the weirdest thing to have life brought back into this home, even if it’s little by little, but it’s even more strange to feel and see the changes in himself and his openness to talking and spending time with more people.

It happens slowly, really. He knows that he’s charmed by Emma, that he thinks she’s witty and someone nice to talk to, but he keeps it mostly professional, a few little jabs every now and then. Life would be utterly boring without jokes. But as the weeks pass, October chilling into November and November freezing into December, he realizes that he might have made a friend for the first time in a long time. He still speaks to a few of his mates back home, but he can feel the distance between them. And not just the physical one.

And in becoming friends with Emma, he learns that she likes margherita pizza and prefers whiskey over wine. She’s got an unhealthy obsession with watching HGTV, mostly so that she can point out everything that they do wrong, but when she’s not watching it, she’s usually watching documentaries about literally anything and everything. They watch one on the ocean one day. She’d been over late helping him install his bookshelves into his wall, and instead of going home afterward, she’d put on Netflix and sat with him, stretching her feet out on his coffee table and wiggling her socked feet whenever a shark swam across the screen.

She’s bloody terrified of the creatures, and if he changed her ringtone to the Jaws theme song, well, no one has to know that but him. He’s not sure if she’s heard it yet, but sometimes he’s tempted to call her while they’re in the same place simply to see the look on her face.

That night is also the night that he learns that she’s never been sailing despite the fact that she’s lived in Maine for her entire life, and he promises to take her when spring comes. It’s a simple statement, one that really doesn’t mean anything, but he realizes that he’s making plans for the future. He’s been doing it this entire time, but this one seems different.

So being friends with Emma has brought a lot of changes to his life, but the most notable is that she drags him along to Wednesday night dinners with the Nolans. Even though he went to David’s birthday dinner, it’s a bit odd to be back in this place that’s so full of life and conversation. He’s introduced to at least ten different people, all of them kind except for Leroy. Emma swears that he’s prickly but sweet, but he’s not entirely sure if that’s true. Maybe if he keeps coming around, it will be.

He realizes that he wants to keep coming around. He wants to be around people, wants to have friends, and it’s that same reasoning that has him applying for a job at the only local architecture firm in Storybrooke. He’s not sure how much business they get that’s not commercial for the local businesses that attract tourism in the summers, but they’re hiring…and they hire him.

Emma: Are you leaving your humble abode tonight or am I going to have to drag you to Marg’s to celebrate Christmas?

He laughs at the message on his phone before he looks up around the office to make sure no one is looking. He doesn’t think they really care that he uses his phone, but it’s his first week and he wants to make a good impression.

Killian: I’ll be there with my figgy pudding.

Emma: Are you actually making figgy pudding?

Emma: You’re very British.

Killian: Nah, I made a coffee cake. It’s sitting in the fridge.

Killian: That does not mean you can break in and eat it before the party.

Emma: Wasn’t planning on it, but now the seed is planted.

“Jones,” Jefferson calls out, making him look up from his cubicle, “you’ve got a client wanting to talk to you about building a secondary house for his mother-in-law.”

Oh the joys of his job.

-/-

“Hey,” Emma greets him when he opens his front door, still buttoning up his shirt. He was half dressed when she started ringing the doorbell, and she wouldn’t stop until he came down. He should have never installed the thing. “You ready to go?”

“I’m still getting dressed, love,” he sighs, finishing the button he’s working on while his eyes flicker up and down her body. She looks different tonight, and it only takes him a moment to pinpoint that it’s the black eyeliner on her lid that makes her eyes look impossibly bigger. Everything else is the same, tight skinny jeans and boots with a sweater. This one hugs her curves instead of draping over her body, and he has to keep himself from looking too long. “You were being bloody obnoxious.”

“You’re old, so sometimes you’re hard of hearing.”

“So funny.” He rolls his eyes at her, but he lets her in the house anyways. It’s mostly put together, colors coating all of the walls and furniture filling the place. He knows that mostly he’s lacking the personal touch, and Emma has encouraged him to put up photographs, but he’s not sure that he can quite yet. “If you’ll get the cake out of the fridge, I’ll go get my shoes and we can make our long journey over.”

“I was only here for the cake, not for you.”

“I would have expected nothing less.”

They’re out of the house in five minutes, and when they walk into the Nolans’, it’s a complete contrast. They have Christmas decorations everywhere, almost to the point of tackiness, but with how much Mary Margaret seems to love the season, he knew to expect this. It’s nice in a way. These are people who welcome what he’s come to realize are misfits and stragglers into their home, and if they want to have a stuffed Santa that hangs from the ceiling, they can.

“How’s your first week at work?” David asks him once everyone has settled down into the living room, plates of food on their laps as he can hear nothing but the dull roar of conversation and music in the background.

“It’s good, a bit slow paced, but it’s nice to have something to focus on besides the house.”

“Are you going home to see your family for Christmas next week?”

In all of his busyness, in getting caught up with work and his house and living a life that was more than moping, he somehow didn’t think about this. He didn’t think about the questions that would be asked of him now that the holidays are here. It’s weird to have friends, to have people who know him without actually knowing him, and his stomach churns and twists as he tries to keep the tears from stinging behind his eyes. It’s only been two years since Liam and Milah died, and he’s avoided people around the holidays. This is the first time he’s ever really been asked.

“I decided to stay here,” he tells David as his eyes glance across the room to see Emma talking to Graham, their bodies close to each other as Emma laughs at whatever it is he’s saying. His stomach twists again, flames flickering across his skin, and he needs to get out of here before he vomits. “I’m going to go get some fresh air,” he tells David, ignoring the look of confusion on his face. It’s probably because it’s far too cold for anyone to be out there, but he can’t be inside anymore.

It’s too suffocating.

He doesn’t know where to go, though. He could stay here, could simply take a minute to calm himself down, but the swing on his back deck is calling his name. It’s close enough that he could still come back to the party without anyone noticing, but it’s far enough away that he can be by himself for a few moments.

He needs to be by himself.

His brother was the most important person in his life. He was there when their dad left, when their mum died, and through every good and bad situation in between. Liam went into the Navy to support him, to make sure that he had a place to sleep and food to eat, and even when Killian turned eighteen, Liam stayed so that Killian could go to university. Liam stayed for him, always, and the niggling voice that always tells him that Liam died for him starts to make its way past the layers of doors and windows that he’s locked to keep those thoughts away.

And Milah…God, he’d loved her.

He still can’t believe they’re gone.

“You’re going to lose your elf ears, Jones.”

He looks up from his lap to see Emma walking toward him with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her beanie with the tufts on her head. She’s bundled up like a burrito, and it warms him a bit, especially when he sees that she’s holding two plates of cake.

“I’m tougher than you when it comes to the cold.”

“That’s because you’re crazy.” She quickly walks up the steps and sits down next to him, making the swing sway a bit more as she hands him the plates so that she can spread the blanket out over their legs. It doesn’t quite reach his toes, but he doesn’t have to point that out to Emma. “So you want to talk about what’s got you all broody?”

“I am not.”

“You are,” she promises, nudging his shoulder and taking her cake back from him. He notices that she takes the bigger piece. “I saw you stalk off after talking to David. Did he say something dumb?”

“No, Swan, he didn’t. I, um, I – the holidays are hard for me, and I guess I didn’t really think about it until now.”

She hums next to him while she pops her fork in her mouth. “I kind of figured.”

“How?”

“You’re almost thirty-five years old, you live alone, and you never talk about friends or family. You’re obviously not from here, which makes me think that maybe you were running away from something.”“Perceptive, aren’t we?”

“I am.” She twists a bit, the swing moving with her, and then he’s looking into wide, beautiful green eyes that brim with understanding. “Look, I like to think we’re friends. I’ve seen your bedsheets and your underwear drawer.”

“Does that make us friends?”

“It does. It’s on the list of how to make friends or whatever.” She flashes him a bright smile, and the tightness in his stomach lessens while he returns it. “I think we’re friends, but I also know that you hide things from me. I don’t know what because I don’t believe in making people talk when they’re not ready to, but I also know what it’s like to be alone. I’m an orphan, and it’s not a dirty word. I don’t have parents or siblings, and if I do, I don’t care about them anymore. I’ve spent more holidays alone than with people, so I know how much it sucks, how hard it is. So I don’t know exactly what your story is, but if you don’t want to be alone on Christmas, you don’t have to be.”

He should have known that Emma doesn’t have any family. She never talks about her family either, never talks about her past except for when they first met, and it clicks with him that maybe they’re more similar than he thought. Maybe she understands him in a way that’s more than simply how to decorate his house.

“Thank you, love,” he mumbles, wrapping his arm around her shoulder without thinking about it. “I don’t – my brother was my best friend, and he died two years ago in an accident on his ship at sea. Three months before that my girlfriend died in a car accident that she was only in because we’d gotten into an argument and she’d decided to go home. It’s crazy because I don’t even remember what the argument was about. It was that small. But I had this full life, one marked by a shitty childhood, but I had a full life. And then I didn’t.”

It’s not saying a lot, just the bare minimum, but he’s not sure that he can say more without completely losing himself.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Killian,” Emma whispers, scooting her body a little closer as they continue to sway. “You’re – I’m…”

“- I know. I am too. So, yeah, holidays are hard for me, and you’re – you’re the first friend I’ve had since then. I’m sorry that I’m not always great company.”

“Nah, you’re wonderful company. Who else tells me their deepest darkest secrets with the plan to let me die of frostbite when there’s a fun party going on thirty feet away?”

“Well, I do strive to always provide a unique experience.”

“That you do.”

Something changes after that night, and like most things in his life recently, he doesn’t really notice until the changes have established themselves into his daily routines. Emma makes an effort to talk to him far more often, even though his house is mostly done, and they’re more open and honest with each other, even when it’s hard. It’s still mostly lighthearted teasing and jokes, but there are nights when Emma comes over or when he goes to her place where they have conversations more like the one out on his back deck.

She tells him that she got into interior design because it’s important to her for people to have a home that they feel comfortable in. She could have gone into something like social work, but it was just too hard for her, too many bad memories tainting it. She likes the brightness of homes, of watching people get excited over the smallest things. She likes giving people the homes that she never had, even if it’s in the most roundabout way.

Emma is light when she should be dark, and even though he can see the hardened edges in her occasional defensiveness, he wonders just how she’s managed to drag him into her light as well.

He wonders about it even more when she tells him about Neal one night when they’ve had a little too much to drink. They’d been together when she was a teenager and all throughout university, and when she had a pregnancy scare, he bolted in the middle of the night never to be heard of again. It breaks his heart a little more for her, but it also endears him to her even more. Emma’s been left by everyone who should love her. They’ve all left on their own, and while his father did leave on his own, everyone else was taken from him far too soon.

They��ve both been left, no matter the circumstances, but Emma makes him feel hope that maybe scars don’t always have to stay fresh. He can keep them, wear them proudly, but they don’t have to define every decision he makes for the rest of his life.

And six months into knowing Emma Swan while she’s helping him plant some shrubs in his front yard, he realized that he is absolutely falling in love with her. The initial attraction was always there. He’s never denied that he was charmed by her. He’d simply avoided the fact that it could ever evolve into something more.

It has, and he’s got no bloody clue what to do with that information. If anything that David says is correct, she’s been dating Graham for the past two months. She’s never said anything, and he realizes now as he watches her try to get dirt out of her hair, that he didn’t ask because he was terrified to know the answer.

It makes his flesh heat and his stomach twist into knots that will never come untied. He’s jealous. Logically he knows this, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, especially because Emma is his friend. She doesn’t owe him anything. She should be happy.

He wants to rip the curls off of Graham’s head.

He should probably go running or something to work out his frustration.

A marathon or two sounds good.

Maybe three.

Maybe he’ll take up boxing.

Maybe he’ll try to be a grown man and deal with it.

“Can we eat lunch soon?” Emma whines, standing up from the ground and taking her gloves off before she wipes her hands on her leggings. “As fun as this is and all, I’m dying to eat something.”

“Why don’t you go order something while I finish up here?”

“What do you want.”

He winks. “Surprise me.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Emma orders them pizza, the delivery guy showing up while he’s finishing up planting some lilies. He pays the man and takes the box inside, plopping it down on the coffee table in the living room where Emma is watching a documentary on what he believes is music in the seventies.

“Did you pay John?”

“I did. Do you know the name of every pizza delivery man in town?”

“You bet I do,” she laughs, leaning forward and opening up the box before she grabs a slice. “I find that making friends with the people who deliver you food is the best way to make sure they give you good pizza.”

“You are the most brilliant woman I’ve ever known.”

“Don’t appreciate the sarcasm there, Jones.”

“Didn’t think you would,” he chuckles as he takes the few steps over into his kitchen and washes his hands, letting the sound of the water fill the room. His house is so full of life when it was once nothing, and that still surprises him sometimes. “Do you need a plate?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t mess up my furniture.”“I would never.”

He and Emma never make it back out to his front yard, getting lost in lounging around in front of the television and flipping through the channels, not really caring what’s on the screen. It’s a lazy day, even when it started out as productive, and by the time ten at night rolls around and Emma’s still there, the question that’s been on his mind for weeks now practically rolls off of his tongue.

“Why are you here?”

He regrets it immediately, but he regrets it even more when Emma mutes the television and turns to him with her eyebrows practically in her hairline and her mouth gaping open.

“Because this is what we do on Saturdays?” she questions, the confusion obvious in her voice as the lines on her forehead increase. “Do you want me to leave? Because, I mean, I can, but that’s kind of a jackass move.”

“No, no, no,” he protests, raising his hands in the air before clicking his tongue. Hell, he might as well just ask. He’ll rip of the band-aid and then need about ten new ones after the answer. “I just, ah, did you not have plans with Graham tonight?”

“Graham? Why would I have plans with – oh my God,” she groans, throwing her head back before sitting up, her bun bouncing the slightest big. “You’ve been talking to David, haven’t you? I’m going to kill him.”

“Why?”

“I went on three dates with Graham,” she mumbles, continuously readjusting on the couch while his stomach continues to flip, “and he’s a super nice guy. Like, there’s nothing wrong with him and we’ll probably always be friends, but I don’t like him in a way that makes me want to date him. But Mary Margaret has been pushing us together for years, so she and David were likely already planning the wedding.”He shouldn’t be relieved, but he is. Most definitely.

Maybe he’s a bit of an asshole.

He should punish himself a little by running that marathon.

“That makes sense. They’re great, but they can be a bit intense when it comes to romance.”

“True love and all that.”

“Aye.”

“Wait,” Emma starts, the corners of her lips curling up into a smile, “are you jealous?”

“I’m too old to get jealous,” he huffs, trying to control the clench in his jaw. “That is so not true. Killian Jones, do you have a crush on me?”

She’s teasing him. He knows that she is. No part of her is being serious. If she thought he was actually jealous, thought that he actually may like her in some kind of school boy type of way, she wouldn’t be teasing like this. Logically he knows this, knows that he could simply tease her back and this would go down as nothing more than a conversation, but now that he has the opportunity, he realizes that he doesn’t want to mess around. He’s old enough to be over these types of games.

“Aye.”

He doesn’t feel any kind of relief saying the word out loud, but it’s mostly likely because all of his focus is on the way that Emma’s lips part and press together, a repetitive motion that he can tell she’s trying to control. He’s most likely shocked her, and he knows that moment she collects her thoughts because her eyes bulge the slightest bit before her face goes back to normal, shoulders only shaking the slightest bit.

“I’m sorry – what? Did you just say that you have a crush on me?”

“I wouldn’t use the word crush. I’d say I have feelings for you, but yeah, crush can work.”

“You don’t…I don’t – I…do you…oh damn. I was not expecting that tonight.”

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, love,” he promises, flashing her a feeble smile while his heart finally begins to pound against his ribcage, contrasting feelings of hopefulness and despair making everything the slightest bit uncomfortable. It’s just that I, uh,” he stutters as he scratches behind is ear, “don’t see any point in lying to you when I do have feelings for you, when I’m fond of you whether you’re yelling at me for my choice of light fixture or not.”

Her lips press together in a genuine smile then, and before he can gather himself, Emma is scooting closer on the couch, inching as close to him as possible without actually touching him. He can feel the heat of her breath on his skin, and gooseflesh breaks out across his arms. It only gets worse when Emma’s hand reaches up to caress his face, soft fingertips tracing just under his eyes.

“I’m not going to write it on my notebook or anything, but I have a crush on you too.”

She captures his laugh with her lips, their smiles pressing together, and even though it’s only the briefest of slides of their lips, it is everything that he’s secretly wanted for months now. It’s comfort and pent up feelings and a sense of belonging when he hasn’t belonged anywhere in so damn long.

He belongs.

“You taste like pizza,” Emma says when she pulls back, their foreheads still pressed together and all of her usual eloquence on full display.

“Is that why you kissed me?”

“Yeah, and I think I’ll only keep kissing you when you taste like pizza.”

“I best sell this house and go live in a gym so that I can eat pizza for every meal.”

“That’s cheesy.”

“Literally.”

He doesn’t sell the house or live in a gym or eat pizza for every meal, but Emma does spend more time in his house after they go out to dinner and the movies and ballgames and any type of date he can think of. It’s exactly like it was before, but it’s different, more intimate, and as weeks and months go by, he falls a little more in love with Emma than he ever thought possible. It’s not easy, especially because the more time they spend together, the more he learns of the darkness that Emma tries to stay away from. He’s always known it was there, but she trusts him enough to let him see more of it now.

He does the same to her.

Emma knows all about his dark days with the anniversaries of the deaths of his loved ones, but for the first time, he has someone to help him through both days. And he realizes on the second go round, when Emma listens to him tell stories of Milah and how she used to love to sing in the car even if she didn’t know the words to the songs, he realizes that he wants her by his side for the rest of his life.

And as pictures finally get put in the frames of his home, ones of Liam and Milah, of David and Mary Margaret, of Rob and Roland and all of his friends at work, he realizes that there was no reason to be scared of life when it feels this good to live.

His favorite picture, though, is the one of he, Emma, and their son that sits on his bedside table.

He bought a house, and it became a home.

#cs prompt #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

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trashboatprince · 5 years

Text

…

I have fallen into the small pit that is this ship and I’m not even bothering to get out. So, aside from doing some fanart, I’m writing up a story.

Summery: Finding someone special isn’t as easy as Susie thought, you never know who will steal your heart. Could me a musician, a director, or it could be a little angel, sent from above…

How far will you go to get that special someone into your life?

Warning: implied death/body horror, blood, Joey being a jerk as usual, Susie making a big mistake

Pairing: Susie/Alice (implied, onesided, at this point at least)

On with the fic!

When Susie was a child, she asked her mother when she find herself true love like in the books she read, or like the starlets of the screen. Her mother replied, ‘you’ll know who the right one for you is one day when they make you feel something very special, something you’ve never felt before and it makes you happier than you’ve ever been’.

For years Susie tried to figure out what that ‘special’ was. She dated and flirted with many a boy in high school and college, never went beyond five dates, at the most. She never even slept with any of them, men could be cute and charming, but she never found them… attractive? She wasn’t sure, she did find a few attractive, but not in the way that her friends seemed to find men they dated or married.

When she was hired to work at a little animation studio, Susie seemed to find some of the men there to be… interesting? She wasn’t sure, but she did find that the music director, the one in charge of her voicing characters for their new talky-toons, to be so charming. He had a nice smile, and lovely hair. Susie couldn’t help but to work her magic on the man, and they hit it off!

But not for long. Susie liked his company, but he was so quiet, reserved, and outside of work he was so fidgety and confused. She… decided they’d just stay friends.

Then Joey Drew himself seemed to enjoy speaking with her more, and Susie found that she didn’t mind his company. He was charismatic and seemed to have a big personality. He also liked to leave her little gifts, extra money in her paycheck… was this that special feeling? When a man made a girl feel like a queen?

Susie didn’t mind that at all, but there was something… strange about it. She didn’t feel like it was right, but she wasn’t sure.

Only two months into this business at the studio and already she got promoted to be the voice of the newest character to the batch, a special lady, sent from above!

The man who designed her, Henry, was a former employee who came back to work for a bit. He seemed to be on strange, bitter terms with their boss, but he was sweet. Out of everyone here, Henry seemed to be the nicest man in the studio, his wife was a lucky lady. He had approached her one day, politely asking if she’d like to be the voice of the new character he designed. He even showed her the design he had done.

Something about seeing the sketches and designs of the new character made Susie’s heart skip a beat.

Alice Angel, that was her name, a beautiful angel who fell from heaven. She could sing, she could dance, she was perfect! And then Henry asked her if she was willing to help him develop the character more. Susie remembered her face feeling hot, her heart beating harder in her chest.

Wow, this felt like such an honor! Henry had explained that since she’d be voicing the angel, she might as well have a hand in bringing her to life in other ways.

Susie was quick to agree and helped in developing Alice into the sweet gal she’d end up being when her first cartoon finally debuted. The actress remembered being in the viewing theater and holding back tears when she saw Alice coming down through the moonlit sky, on a little cloud, singing her heart out.

She was quick to take a poster of the short home. And every poster for every short she played in after that. All of them were framed, hung around her small home.

Black became a common color of her wardrobe, including black lipstick. There was just something about wearing these little changes that made Susie think, just maybe… Alice would notice? Oh, such a silly thought! She’s a cartoon character, she can’t see her in real life! But why does that fact make her chest ache?

She did her best to ignore these thoughts, maybe it was just her thinking too much of her perfect character. The actress had other things to focus on, like her developing relationship with Joey! The man had taken her out on a date recently, and he was such a gentleman about it, even paying the check!

During dinner, he called her Alice, and Susie couldn’t believe how happy that made her feel. Just… the idea of being called Alice, it made her so excited. She couldn’t help herself when she got home and told her posters.

Not too long after this, Susie found that Joey wasn’t the gentleman he came off as. She found that Henry had departed, leaving and not planning on returning. Why? No one knew, but Norman had mentioned that they got into a huge fight, but he didn’t know the details himself. After this, Joey became bitter, demanding more and more from the employees, and Susie was no exception.

Long hours were spent in the recording booth and even she was having trouble keeping up with all the voice roles that he kept giving her. But she never tired or became distraught over doing Alice, no, the angel kept Susie going through this difficult time. Until an incident happened, where her voice cracked during a recording for a song.

Joey had screamed at her about it, telling her he had no time for delays, that she was the reason that Alice wasn’t anywhere near as popular as Bendy! Susie was the reason that the merchandise wasn’t selling, or why they weren’t making money off of the Alice shorts! Maybe Alice should never have been created, she had just been a waste of time and money!

Even with a damaged voice, Susie screamed back at him, striking her boss across the face.

How dare he blame her for this! Alice as perfect, Alice was a star, Susie knew that people loved her almost as much as Susie did!

And in that moment, she stopped, eyes wide as she realized something.

No one loved Alice, at least… no one loved her as much as Susie did. Nor in the same way that Susie did…

She had left the studio and didn’t return for three days, Sammy calling her to tell her to rest her voice, they’d continue when she was better.

Susie spent the time at home, looking over her growing collection of Alice Angel merchandise. Much of it was the prototypes that Shawn had made, letting her have them. Many plush toys of the little darling, of different sizes and styles. Posters covered the walls, she had at least five cutouts, even a few cells that Henry had been kind enough to let her have.

Was… Alice really that person who made her feel special?

The actress had never felt anything like this before in her life, all her storybooks from childhood, her romance novels from now, all the things she’s seen in movies made her believe that these things she felt to be true.

But Alice is a character on the screen, beautiful, perfect, a true angel, and someone that the studio didn’t deserve! Especially that horrible Joey Drew, how dare he say all those awful lies about her and Alice!

When she went back to the studio, Susie was ready to give Joey another piece of her mind. But instead, she found Sammy in the recording studio with a girl.

Someone Joey had hired while Susie rested her voice.

To replace her as Alice Angel.

Nothing Joey had said days before compared to the pain Susie felt the moment Sammy told her that she was no longer playing Alice’s voice.

She felt like the man had reached into her chest and pulled her heart out, crushing the beating thing right in front of her face. She left in a daze, finding herself in her private area of the studio, past the toy factory. Susie finally broke down when it hit her like an axe to the side of the head, she had been replaced because she stood up to Joey for her true love.

There’s gotta be a way to fix this! There has to be a way…

Susie still worked for the studio, as an understudy for Allison Pendel, and as just another voice actress. Just like those first two months…

She was bitter, furious, she rarely said a word to anyone that wasn’t work related. And nothing was said to the replacement. Mama always said ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ and Susie had nothing nice to say to that angel thief!

Recently, Susie had taken notice to strange things in the studio, people vanishing, strange noises, more ink than usual, and something in the vents that banged around and whistled. But she ignored it, probably just Wally up to something, or Joey being an idiot about not getting things fixed around here.

Speaking of the bastard, he had approached her earlier, said he had… an opportunity for her. Alright, Susie figured she’d give him the benefit of the doubt, but if that man thought he could double cross her again…

Oh, he had another thing coming. Alice, and Susie herself, did not like liars…

When he spoke with her in his office, Susie had been surprised at the offer he gave her: help him bring Alice to life, outside of ink and paint, outside of reels and screens.

Joey asked her to help make Alice a living, breathing, creation.

Susie was conflicted, this was playing God, this was dangerous. And yet… this gave her a chance, she could see the one she had fallen for, the one that was right for her, alive and with her…

She said yes.

And regretted it soon after, when she was introduced to Joey’s… other living toons. If they could even be called that. There were strange, living ink blobs that moaned and reached out at her, but he told her not to worry, they were trial and error creations! Nothing like what Alice would become! And then he introduced her to ‘Bendy’.

He was a sight to behold, a strange creature made of ink, wearing the devil’s signature smile. Joey told her that he was a proto-type for the real Bendy, that this ‘Bendy’ was a trial and error copy, it was just missing the proper ingredient.

That worried Susie, but he assured her that what Alice would need was nothing like what Bendy needed to come to life!

A few nights later, Susie found herself in a strange room she had never seen before, standing on a pentagram. There were people in the room with her, hidden in the shadows, but she could make out cardboard masks of the characters of the series, though they were mainly the Butcher Gang and Boris. She wore an Alice one, the only one, on her face.

Looking through the eye holes, she could see the two Bendy’s, one of them was Joey, the other she wasn’t sure. Joey gave her some sorta boring speech about how she was going to help bring Alice to life, to give her the heart and soul she needed to be on the mortal plane. Something about his words filled her with dread and doubt, but she was determined, she had to meet the beautiful angel that made her feel so special…

Then the lights went out, and when they came back on, the room was rumbling, the scent of ink was suddenly strong, something wet fell from a hole in the ceiling, and Joey was behind her. She barely had time to react as he shouted Alice’s name and slit her throat

Susie gagged on the blood that filled her mouth, then it mixed with the ink that suddenly poured from the ceiling and she dropped to the ground. The pentagram glowed brightly under her, gold, then red, then back to gold. Susie tried to scream for help, but all that came out was gargled words of blood and ink. She tried to scream for Wally, Norman, even Henry! But they weren’t here, she had no one in this room. The actress stared up at Joey, was he still talking? She couldn’t tell, but he seemed conflicted, concerned, gesturing to her as the other seemed to panic.

This was a mistake, she didn’t want to die to bring Alice into the world, she was depressed, yes, but she had so much to live for! Why was this happening!? She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to die!

Susie~!

What?

Was… was that Alice? That voice, saying her name…

With what little strength she had left, Susie opened her eyes, seeing not Joey, not the strange people in masks, but the perfect angel, sent from above. Alice was solid, real, perfect, and smiling right at her as she held out her hand.

Come on, Susie, come with me so we can make you into an angel!

Yes… yes! Susie wanted to be an angel, an angel worthy of being with Alice!

With shaky, bloody fingers, she reached out to grab Alice’s hand, but her strength was gone. All she felt was her fingers brush against Alice’s own, and hearing her beloved gal sigh softly.

Oh dear, were you really not the one?

NO!

No, no, no! Susie was the one for Alice, the only one for her! No one could have Alice, no one! Not Allison, not Joey, not even Henry! Only Susie could have Alice Angel!

Only Susie could be Alice Angel!

With a screech from a voice that should have died moments ago, and with new found energy, Susie launched herself as the cartoon and grabbed her, pulling her close. The ink and blood that coated her seemed to be covering the black and white of the angelic toon as she struggled to escape, the actress’ skin melting like liquid ink all over her perfect form.

Pain erupted for Susie’s head, as if two things were growing from her skull. There was a bright light over her head as she felt Alice fuse with her skin, blood, and ink. Yes, yes, so this is what her mama meant, that she’d find someone who could make her feel so special. It really was Alice all along, she was her special feeling, her true love.

Dreams come true, Susie. Dreams come true.

Years of work, of slaughter and stolen hearts, of too many encounters with the Ink Demon and his Dark Puddles had resulted in something close to perfection. A form that was deserving of the title of ‘Alice Angel’.

She smirked as she strolled through the halls of her domain, where she ruled, where the Ink Demon dare not try to stain her walls with his filthy ink. An axe held tight in her grip as she went to check on traps she had set up for rogue Boris clones or mutated Butcher Gang members that wandered her halls, trailing their tainted ink with them.

It didn’t hurt to see if the Projectionist had left any goodies behind, the fool just liked to maim, never really doing much with the prizes inside. Except on rare occasions where he’d take the hearts and hide them away in the Buddy Boris railway shop. Not even the studio’s angel knew why he kept them there, then again, Norman had always been a strange man in life.

‘Alice’ heard struggling coming from a trap, down a hallway that not many really ventured into. Not much there, just a tape of Wally and Thomas’, a Little Miracle Station with a door that never closed right, and a viewing hole to where the Ink Machine could rise and fall into the dark abyss.

It was in this area that ‘Alice’ stumbled upon a sight she never expected. In so many years of wandering these yellowed, rotten floors has a sight like this never appeared, but right before her eyes was a perfect Alice Angel, captured in a simple rope trap.

Flashes in ‘Alice’s’ mind gave her images of a sweet smile, a gentle hand, and harsh words that made her feel like she wasn’t worthy of the angel of the stage. But this was different, this wasn’t a trick, a spell caused by Joey to spare her, to keep her alive, this was the real deal.

Alice was struggling to untie the rope around her ankles when she noticed that she was no longer alone. Large, dark eyes stared into yellowed ones and ‘Alice’ smirked at the look of fear and curiosity of the sweet cherub’s face.

“Look what Heaven left for me, someone to make me feel so special.”

END

If you follow my tumblr and/or twitter, you may be aware of the au I have where Alice saves the studio, Henry, and her girlfriend Susie/Malice.

This is a prequel to that.

Thanks for reading! I have another fanfic in the works for this au!

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #susie campbell #alice angel #alice x susie #joey drew #john's drabbles

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ferryboatpeak · 5 years

Note

would love to hear how tom/ben/meri came about

thank you for indulging me, anon. buckle up for the wear you like a necklace backstory i never intended to think about…

so ben’s got a film project that’s going to take him to france for three months, and meredith is jolly well going to go with, because (a) summer in the south of france, and (b) she is not going to be a single parent for three months, no way. maybe ben’s going to be on set 14 hours a day, but that’s better than him being completely gone for three months. and anyway it won’t just be her and ruby… she can get an au pair, right? right.

hiring someone abroad turns out to be too hard, and finding the right candidate who’s willing to pick up and go to france with them for the summer is also hard (this person’s going to live in their house, meredith’s getting a bit picky about it), and one night over drinks she’s self-consciously bitching to an old friend from university about this extremely white people problem. her friend, who went into academia, recognizes a pretty sweet summer setup when she sees one, and mentions that maybe she’s got a grad student who’d be interested. sure, meredith says, connect me. her professor pal puts out some email feelers to a few of her favorite students and tom’s the one who replies.

meredith’s a bit surprised when her friend sends her tom’s contact information… she wasn’t expecting to hire a manny… but tom’s emails are all spelled correctly, and when he comes to the house for an interview he’s absolutely charming, and good with ruby, and when she makes them tea tom rinses out his mug and puts it in the dish drainer without meredith even asking, so she hires him.

tom babysits a couple of evenings in the spring, so ruby can get comfortable with him. he’s in that post-undergrad period of life when adulthood is something he’s supposed to have achieved, or to achieve in the very near future, and yet it also feels kind of abstract and distant. adulthood is the provenance of people like his parents.

but now, suddenly, adulthood also means ben and meredith. the way they look when they’re going out for the evening, the way they talk to each other, the photos on the hallway table of the two of them smiling on travels to exotic places, the neatly labeled jars of spices in their kitchen, the vase of flowers on the table, the indulgently stylish furniture in ruby’s nursery… this, tom thinks, this is a kind of adulthood he likes. this is the way he would like to be an adult.

he walks through the quiet house after ruby goes to sleep, noticing little details. ben’s slippers by the door, the soft throw on the sofa, the books on the coffee table. he stops at the threshold of ben’s office and peeks through: framed posters and signed photographs from ben’s projects on the walls, an elaborate desktop setup with two monitors, a flatscreen above the fireplace. (the pictures of one direction and the poster from harry’s show at the garage don’t really register because tom’s never paid attention to any of that music.)

there’s some kind of fancy caprese salad in the fridge; help yourself, meri had said. tom gets a bowl of it and a fork from the drawer – it’s heavier than tom thought a fork should be, with a nice tapered handle – and sits cross-legged on the sofa. he’s careful about what he pulls up on netflix; ben and meri might notice the search history. on the coffee table, the baby monitor hisses softly with white noise. he’s going to have this life for an entire summer, and he already doesn’t want to let it go.

ben’s leaving the logistics of temporarily relocating to france in meredith’s capable hands, so he’s a little surprised but not terribly interested when she mentions she found an au pair, and oh by the way it’s a guy. he becomes considerably more interested, however, the first time they come home from a date night and he meets tom. tom is effortlessly charming because he’s tom and also because he’s already decided meredith is a Very Cool Boss and he’s very curious about the other half of the equation. ben asks tom about school, and where he’s from, and figures out what tom’s owed for the evening and tips him well. by the end of that five-minute interaction, tom’s decided that ben is also going to be a Very Cool Boss, and tom has also resolved that he is not going to wank about the thought of ben bossing him around. definitely not. that would be weird.

later, upstairs:

“can we talk about the babysitter?” ben asks, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

“no, we cannot talk about the babysitter,” meredith says, rolling her eyes at him in the mirror, in a tone that conveys the exact opposite of what she’s saying.

“i think we can talk about the babysitter,” ben says, and sticks his toothbrush in his mouth. he watches meredith in the mirror as he brushes vigorously.

meredith leans toward the mirror and pats a fingerful of something from a small gold jar onto her face. “he’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“think he’s… hmm… open-minded?” ben asks, as he spits into the sink. he bends down to splash water into his mouth.

“we can’t fuck the babysitter,” meredith says automatically. she flicks her toothbrush under the tap and adds toothpaste to it. her eyes cut toward ben in the mirror and she mumbles through the toothbrush, “wait, would you?” (she’s not going to be able to get it out of her head now, the image of little blonde cheekboned tom on her husband’s cock.)

“i… wouldn’t rule it out,” ben says, looking at the ceiling as he flosses. their arrangement with harry has opened ben’s mind to all kinds of things. but they haven’t hooked up with harry since ruby was born. seems like an awfully convenient coincidence to have somebody who looks like tom moving in with them.

“if we did,” meredith says a few minutes later, after they’ve turned out the light, “we’d have to be careful about it.” ben’s pillow rustles as he turns his head to look at her. “he’s our employee, we can’t just… i don’t know. it’s not like harry, you know?”

“see what happens, i guess” ben says, and meredith snuggles her shoulder against his before they fall asleep.

what happens is that the summer goes swimmingly. having tom around reminds them of when harry lived with them, except without the burden of the sort of nominally parental role they felt obligated to play for harry. tom’s an invaluable extra pair of hands, and he’s just so easy to have around, as if he makes every conversation brighter. they don’t want to compare him to harry – nobody else can ever be harry – but harry’s kind of a lot sometimes. tom’s not exhausting in the way harry can be exhausting, and right now ruby’s quite exhausting enough for everyone. tom’s pleasant, lowkey, helpful presence is just the right thing.

meanwhile tom is basking in their approval, reveling at being let into their life. his attraction to ben and meri is all tangled up in wanting to be what they are, wanting to have what they have. he wants it all. sometimes it feels like he’s a part of it, and sometimes it feels like he’s never going to get close enough. he wants in, all the way in.

one night at dinner it comes up that tom was a ballroom dance champion when he was a teenager. ben and meri ask fascinated questions, and meri finally insists that tom dance with her.

[remember those insta stories of tom dancing with jez butterworth and laura donnelly on the terrace at their french country house, the inspiration for this entire au? that’s where we have arrived, friends. (please watch that link, tom just snuggles right up to jez and it is VERY HARD for me not to ship it.) anyway.]

tom waltzes meredith around the terrace. they’re laughing and counting out the beat and tom’s careful not to trod on her toes even when she misses a step. meredith gives a surprised whoop! when tom dips her at the end, after they’ve circled around so they’re right in front of ben. “that was lovely,” she says, straightening up, still in his arms. they’re eye to eye now, and meredith doesn’t let go. “can i kiss you?” she asks, her eyes sparkling.

the question delights tom down to the very soles of his feet. he waits for a nod from ben, and then, like the star ballroom partner that he is, he takes the lead. it’s an easy, friendly kind of a kiss, both of them testing the waters and finding them good.

they smile at each other for a moment afterwards, and then meredith says, “all right, now teach ben something. he never wants to dance with me.”

“that’s a shame,” tom says, and holds out his hand to ben. ben is indeed a terrible dancer, and their circuit around the terrace is more of an awkward shuffle, tom trying to prod ben into leading and ben not entirely sure of where his hands go, all while tom is still riding the adrenaline rush of having just kissed ben’s wife and also being super super conscious of ben’s hand on his back, which feels entirely different than dancing with meredith (in a very exciting way.)

tom looks up at ben when they’re finished, his hand still at ben’s waist, and it is VERY VERY obvious that tom wants ben to kiss him, and so ben does. (it is unclear if meredith says “do it” in the background, tom’s not able to focus on anything other than ben.)

more kisses are shared that night, and the nights that follow. everyone gets a little handsier, a little looser, testing out the humming current of possibility that’s carrying them all along, the shared understanding that something’s going to happen. they lean closer and closer to the edge until one night in the kitchen ben has his arm around tom and tom presses his hip into ben’s – let me in, let me in – and ben lets tom slide in front of him and wraps his hands around tom’s waist and whispers into his ear as his thumb traces the button of tom’s shorts “do you want me to touch you?”

“yeah,” tom breathes, tipping his head back against ben’s shoulder, “yes, please.” ben gets him off right there in the kitchen, with tom’s hands braced on the countertop and meredith watching from the other side of the island, her breath quickening to match tom’s.

afterwards she cups tom’s jaw in her hand and kisses him on the temple and thanks him – as if he’s done her a favor, tom thinks in confusion – and tells him to get a good night’s sleep, and then she leads ben upstairs by the hand and they have frantically hot sex like they have not had since well before the baby was born. (thereby banishing any lingering doubts about whether they should be involving their nanny in their sex life.)

tom doesn’t clock that that’s what’s happening. he only knows that ben got him off and he didn’t get to reciprocate, and it’s an affront to all that he stands for. he wants to be let in, he wants to be of use, he wants to anticipate and fulfill their needs. it drives him crazy all the next day, and by the time ben and meri invite him upstairs the following night he’s practically begging to suck ben off, which meets the needs of everyone involved just fine.

#french countryside tomrry #next up: the (first) tom/harry/ben/meri sex scene you never knew you needed #(actually you probably don't need it but too bad it's coming (and coming and coming) anyway)

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theliberaltony · 5 years

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via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

I drove down to West Virginia in early March, during the teacher strike. While President Trump had won the state with 68 percent of the vote in 2016, the strike seemed like a bit of old West Virginia peeking through, reminiscent of a time when labor unions and the Democratic Party dominated the state’s politics.

The halls of the Capitol in Charleston were sweating hot when I got there, filled with hundreds of teachers looking for a pay raise. The strike would go on for two weeks, and clever signs were the favorite medium of the teachers. One that caught my eye was a poster that name-checked two of the most high-profile members of the state Senate: “In a world of Carmichaels, be an Ojeda.”

Carmichael was Mitch Carmichael, Republican president of the West Virginia Senate, whom teachers were blaming for stonewalling their pay raise. Ojeda was Richard Ojeda, a Democrat from Logan County and one of the more vocal supporters of the striking teachers. A former Army paratrooper who looks like it and who speaks every word of every sentence with concentrated intensity, Ojeda had become known for his unrehearsed Facebook live talks and unvarnished advocacy for a working man’s Democratic Party.

On Monday, the day after Veterans Day, eight months after the teacher strike and less than one week after he lost a congressional bid, Ojeda declared his intention to run for president in front of the Korean War Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Ojeda is one of the first Democrats to officially declare his candidacy for 2020, and although he doesn’t enter the contest as a buzzy national front-runner, he’s a former Trump voter with a case to make.

The proposition of Ojeda’s 2020 candidacy is surely to win voters like himself — Democrats who voted for Trump or just plain old Republicans — back to the side of the Democratic Party. In his 2018 bid for West Virginia’s 3rd Congressional District, Ojeda lost to the Republican, but he got 43.6 percent of the vote, 20 points more than the Democrat who ran in 2016 did. Ojeda outperformed his district’s partisan lean by about 24 points — one of the best showings in the nation. There’s proof that at least in West Virginia, Ojeda is a Democrat who has across-the-aisle appeal.

I spoke to Ojeda in his office for little under an hour back in March. That day he wore a ribbon commemorating the service of public employees and the highest, tightest fade I’d seen in quite some time. His office was packed with military memorabilia, tokens of his 24 years of service in the U.S. Army. There were flags, pictures of Ojeda in combat gear, and a framed poster in Arabic depicting voting procedures that was, he told me, a souvenir from the first free election in Iraq post-Saddam.

“You deploy and you go to these other countries because you want those other countries to get a sliver of what you enjoy back in America,” Ojeda said. But he ended up in the military in large part because that was his best option growing up in impoverished southern West Virginia. “When I graduated high school at the age of 18 in Logan County, which is the coal fields, there’s only three choices: dig coal, sell dope, join the Army.”

For much of his Army career, Ojeda was based out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, but he started getting into politics when he began coming back to his home state more often in 2012. “When I got home, I saw how bad things were,” Ojeda said. The military had been something of a pleasant bubble. “You live on a base and everyone to your left and right, we’re all the same mindset,” he said. “Everybody takes care of their stuff, everyone’s kids play soccer together. It’s just a wonderful life.”

Ojeda made an unsuccessful 2014 bid for Congress before winning his West Virginia Senate seat in 2016. That was also the year Ojeda supported Trump for president, something that’s sure to get some attention during the 2020 Democratic primary. When I asked Ojeda about his vote, he was frank about his support for the president:

This is why I supported Donald Trump: Because I live in Logan County, West Virginia, and when the coal industry is down, everyone suffers. The coal miner has their car and everything they own for sale. The stores don’t get no business, and they shut down. Even the funeral homes are doing nothing but cremations because no one can afford a funeral. It’s horrible. I supported him because he says, ‘I’m going to put West Virginians back to work, and I’m going to put those coal miners back to work.’

Although Ojeda no longer supports the president, his voting for a Republican was nothing new. “I don’t think I’ve ever voted for a Democrat for president [in a general election],” he told me.

In a Democratic Party whose core membership has become increasingly liberal over the past decade, Ojeda’s candidacy is likely to face an uphill battle. Elements of the Democratic primary electorate might hold his vote for Trump against Ojeda, despite the fact that he has been a vocal advocate for progressive causes, like the legalization of marijuana, though on some issues he skews more conservative. Ojeda is anti-abortion, except in cases of rape or incest or when the life of the mother is endangered, and he is pro-gun rights. Ojeda is, like many West Virginia Democrats, a throwback to the Democratic Party of previous decades. It’s an appeal that might play well with so-called Obama-Trump voters, but how powerful that demographic will be in the Democratic primary remains to be seen. Only 4 percent of Iowa’s Democratic caucus-goers in 2016 identified as “conservative.” Same in New Hampshire.

When he talked about national party politics, Ojeda could sound a bit like Bernie Sanders, whom Ojeda supported in the 2016 Democratic primary. “The reason why the Democratic Party has fallen from grace in many cases is because they keep supporting the candidate that has the most money, but that’s not the candidate who can relate to the people,” he told me in March.

And Ojeda is certainly not your prototypical polished national politician, the kind who floats focus-group-tested lines. He’s intense when he talks politics, in part because he’s had to deal with some particularly rough-and-tumble stuff during his short career in public office. When he ran in 2016, Ojeda was hospitalized after a brutal attack that he says was politically motivated; he was attacked from behind by a Logan County man and beaten with brass knuckles while putting a political bumper sticker on a car.

I asked Ojeda if he was worried about more attacks as a high-profile Democrat in a state now known for its Republican bent.

“Come from the front,” Ojeda said of his would-be foes. “If you come from the front, you’ll shit your teeth.”

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Clare Malone

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sallsmum · 7 years

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First day nerves.

day five of Malec week - non supernatural Au

Alec Lightwood said a silent prayer that his nerves wouldn’t get the best of him as he got off the elevator and into the offices of the advertising agency that he was about to have his first day of work with.

He went up to the high reception desk, it was all polished wood and stainless steel and told them who he was. The pretty young girl with a thick mane of long red hair directed him to a waiting area and he sat down on a hard-black leather sofa, probably designed to keep people from getting too comfortable. The view from the floor to ceiling windows was spectacular, a complete vista of the bustling city below.

“Mr Lightwood, Mr Bane will see you now, please follow me.” Alec got up, pushing his dark framed glasses back up his nose and followed the pretty redheaded receptionist up a hall way to his right. As they walked, Alec couldn’t help but notice the size of the heels on the girl’s shoes as the clicked on the tiled floor. He was so glad that he wasn’t female and have to deal with such seemingly impossible tasks such as walking on high heels. He could be so uncoordinated at times, he’s probably break his neck if he’d have to of done it.

They stopped at a set of clouded glass double doors, a stylized letter ‘B’ etched in the glass. The girl knock softly before opening the door and walking through. Alec took a deep breath as he heard her tell the boss that he was here. She opened the door wider and waved him through.

Alec squared his shoulders and tried to seem as confident as possible before he entered the office.

A large desk with a glass top sat in front of the same huge windows as the reception area. Aa high backed office chair was turned backwards behind it and he could hear a deep male voice talking from behind it. He took the opportunity to look around. The office seemed bigger than his own apartment. There were shelves with various expensive looking glass ware and figurines on them and the white walls had antique advertising posters on them. There was even a pair of white leather sofas and a glass coffee table to one side. A door stood slightly ajar on one side of the room where a glimpse of tiled floor showed through which looked like a bathroom. Alec snapped back to reality when he heard the man behind the chair finish off his conversation. Here we go, he thought and took in a deep breath.

The chair spun around and the man occupying it was the hottest guy Alec had ever seen in his life. He really had to fight with himself to maintain control of himself. Black hair that was cut very short at the side of his head was longer on the top and fell over one side of his brow. His skin was a light mocha and its smooth surface made Alec’s fingers itch to feel it beneath his fingertips. His eyes were a deep enough brown that the pupils weren’t visible from where he was standing and his small nose and perfect mouth completed his handsome face. He wore a suit that was perfectly tailored for him and Alec knew it would of cost more than he made in a month. He stood up and buttoned the jacket with long elegant fingers which were adorned with several rings. He came around from behind the desk to greet him. He seemed to move his tall frame with a fluid motion of a dancer. He smiled, curving those fabulous lips up at the corners and stuck out a hand.

“Alec Lightwood? Magnus Bane. Welcome to the company.” Alec took his hand in his own. He almost lost control when he felt the soft skin against his. He’d been so right about that.

“Thank you, Mr Bane. I’m happy to be here.” He said, hoping his voice didn’t betray the way he felt inside. Now he was this he could take in the smell of his exotic aftershave or cologne, it made his already racing heart beat even faster.

Those bottomless brown eyes seemed to bore into him and Alec prayed he wouldn’t blush. Did the man always look at new employees like that?

“Let me show you to your office and you can get started then. And please, call me Magnus.” He walked to the door and pulled it open waving Alec through and the headed back up the hallway and back through the reception area to another hall way. Alec noticed heads turning as they went. Not that he could blame them Magnus bane was hard to miss.

The stopped at the third door on the left-hand side and Magnus opened it for him. The room held a desk, computer and a set of shelves. A sloped drawing board sat to the left of the desk and faced a large window. Wow, he was going to have a view.

“I hope you find everything to your liking. I’ll get our office manager to come in and give you all the details you’ll need and show you around the rest of the office. I hope you’ll be happy with us. I’ve heard great things about you.” Magnus told him.

That’s very kind of you, thanks I’m sure I’ll have everything I need.” Alec pushed his glasses back up his nose again. He could have sworn he saw a small smirk tilt his lips before he headed for the door. He paused in the hallway and turned back to face him.

“I hope to see you around, Alexander.” He said before disappearing back up the hall way.

Alec fell into his chair and put a hand over his chest feeling the rapid thump of his heart. Wow, that was totally unexpected. It was going to make things difficult for him to be the new guy and have a giant crush on the boss.

Alec settled in to his work and was pleased to be able to immerse himself in it so it left very little time for his thought to stray to the exceptional Magnus Bane.

Just before lunch, Alec had gathered a pile of papers he needed to copy and he scooped them up from his desk and headed for the door, rifling through them as he went. He collided with a hard surface that also smelt very familiar. His head flew up to see Magnus Bane only an inch in front of him. His paperwork fell to the floor in a flurry of paper, clouding the floor. He felt like a deer caught in a set of headlights, dazed and temporarily rendered immobile. God, why did the man have to smell so damn good? He had little choice but to look directly into his eyes and he thought he saw something flicker in them. Alec realised that magnus had moved his face slightly closer to him and he felt a warm heat rising from deep with in him. Holy shit! Was this really happening?

Then he made the mistake of blinking and Magnus seemed to snap out of it and pull back. Alec dropped to his knees, frantically gathering his paperwork. He tilted his head up to look up at his boss. For a few seconds, Alec saw the man look down at him with gaze that was pure sin. His blood ran cold through his veins. sweet Jesus, had he really seem that?

“I’m so sorry Mr Bane. I should have been looking where I was going.” He stuttered and he slowly stood back up clutching the shambled papers to his chest.

“That’s fine, Alexander, and please call me Magnus. How are things going?” he asked.

“It’s been great so far, thanks.”

“I’ll let you get back to it then. Hope to bump into you again sometime.” He said, smiling back at him. Alec’s knees wanted to give way.

“Ha-ha, yeah me too.” He laughed nervously. Magnus continued to move down the hall way and headed for the copy room. When he reached it, he closed the door behind him and dumped the papers on top of one of the machines before leaning his arms over the top and resting his head on them.

Had that really happened? Was he imagining things or did that gorgeous hunk of a man look like he was tempted to kiss him? Of all the ways he had thought his first day would go, this wasn’t even a possibility. He pulled himself together and took a couple of deep breaths before he got on with the task he had gone there for.

The afternoon passed quickly and as it got nearer to the end of his day, Alec realised he was disappointed that there had been no more chance meetings with Magnus. He straightened his desk and was turning off his computer when a knock on his door made him look up. The red headed receptionist came into his office.

“Mr Bane would like to see you before you go, Mr Lightwood.” She said and then left. OH God, here were go, he was probably going to get fired for being a bumbling idiot and stuffing something up. Alec over looked his clothes and buttoned his suit jacket and headed up the hall way.

The office had grown quiet, most of the other employees having already gone for the day. He walked passed the reception desk and saw that even it was empty. Alec paused half way up the hall. Oh no, what if Magnus had picked up on his attraction to him and he was going to tell him it wasn’t going to work out if he felt that way? Maybe he had imagined everything from earlier that day, that it had all been just his over active imagination. He swallowed hard and headed for the two glass doors.

He knocked and heard Magnus tell him to come in. He stepped through the door and it closed behind him with a click. Magnus was leaning on the front of his desk, his butt just resting on the surface. He had taken off his jacket and was only in shirt and tie, his long legs clad in the dark material of his pants were stuck out at an angle, ankles crossed.

“Please Alexander, come in.” he encouraged and Alec walked a few more steps into the room, close enough to be able to admire those broad shoulders and the way the material of his shirt hugged his biceps. No, stop it! He had to quit that. If it didn’t get him fired now it would eventually, he was sure.

“So, how did your first day go?’ Magnus asked, slowly undoing the knot of his tie. Alec wished he would stop doing that. Why it was affecting him so much he had no idea.

“It was great, thanks. I really enjoyed it.” He said and he was dismayed to hear the slight tremor in his voice.

Magnus got up from the desk, his tie in his hand, and walked over to him. Alec felt his breath hitch and then stop completely.

“You know, when I saw your resume I had no idea how good looking you were.” He said, his voice low and deep. Wait, what? When Alec didn’t reply, he went on.

“Am I right to presume you feel something similar about me?” Magnus was now standing an inch from him. His hand came up and fingered the lapel of his jacket, his eyes capturing his full attention. Alec couldn’t think straight anymore. This was too surreal. He felt his head nodding and he automatically raised his hand to push his glasses up on his nose. Magnus took in a deep breath, closing his eyes in a slow blink.

“Do you have any idea how hot that is? But I bet you look even better without them.” He reached up and removed Alec’s glasses making him blink rapidly to refocus his eyes.

“I was right, you are. There’s something I’ve wanted to do all day, since you stepped foot into my office.” He half whispered. Alec could feel his whole body bunched up tightly, dare he ask?

“What’s that?”

“this.” Magnus plunged that beautiful mouth down on his, kissing him with a force that had Alec wanting to melt in a puddle at his feet. A hand came up behind the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin. Alec found his own arms circling his narrow waist, feeling the firmness of his solid body below the material of his shirt. When Magnus finally raised his head, his eyes shiny with need, Alec gulped in some hard breaths. How had he not taken a breath for that long? A slow smile played across his whole face. Magnus returned his look.

“Welcome to the company, Alexander. I can tell you have a lot of promise.” Alec have a short laugh.

“Best first day ever.” He whispered before tasting those lips once more.

#malec #malec fanfiction #malecweek2017 #magnus x alec

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internetbasic9 · 6 years

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Nature April Bloomfield Breaks Her Silence About Harassment at Her Restaurants

Nature April Bloomfield Breaks Her Silence About Harassment at Her Restaurants Nature April Bloomfield Breaks Her Silence About Harassment at Her Restaurants https://ift.tt/2pXO1GI

Nature

The Spotted Pig chef finally speaks about her role in the abuse scandal that has enveloped her and her partner, Ken Friedman.

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April Bloomfield, a Michelin-starred British chef, is accused of doing nothing to prevent abuse by her business partner, Ken Friedman.CreditCreditAlex Welsh for The New York Times

April Bloomfield sat with feet planted on the floor of a Manhattan hotel room, head down, grimly staring at her hands, which she twisted together until her knuckles turned white.

She fell silent for long stretches, trying to explain how she — one of the best-known chefs in the United States — came to be the first woman in the culinary world accused of victimizing other women since the #MeToo movement exploded.

In a New York Times article last December, more than two dozen people who had worked at her restaurants described a longstanding pattern of sexual harassment and verbal abuse by Ken Friedman, her business partner. Some said she knew about his behavior, which included groping employees and pressuring them for sex, and did nothing to prevent it.

In an instant, Ms. Bloomfield, a Michelin-starred British chef who had built seven thriving restaurants over decades of work, including the celebrated Spotted Pig in the West Village, watched her world break apart.

Mr. Friedman, who has disputed some accusations but apologized for behavior that he called “abrasive, rude and frankly wrong,” immediately stepped away from all business operations but kept his six-figure salary. She had the job of managing the rage and distress of hundreds of current and former employees, and keeping the restaurants going.

Ms. Bloomfield said nothing in public except for a few stiffly worded apologies that were widely criticized as inadequate. Lawyers advised silence while she and Mr. Friedman negotiated the breakup of their restaurant group, which has yet to be completed.

But silence, she has come to understand, inflicts its own damage. After months of requests from The Times, she agreed to be interviewed because she wants to add her voice to the narrative, and start to rebuild her reputation.

In a penthouse suite at the sleek James hotel in NoMad, Ms. Bloomfield, 44, recently sat for hours going over what happened, flanked by her wife and her publicist. She said she now understands that her past silence contributed to the sexual and emotional harassment of people she should have protected.

“I failed a lot of people,” she said. “That’s on my shoulders.”

At the same time, Ms. Bloomfield, like her supporters and some former employees, said she was a casualty herself — of her own naïveté, premature success and a manipulative business partner with whom she became so entangled that for years she could see no way out.

“I felt like I was in a position where he held all the cards,” she said of Mr. Friedman, 59. “He had so much control, and he was so dominant and powerful, that I didn’t feel like if I stepped away that I would survive.”

She knows, too, that because she benefited from the partnership for years, what she says about its dysfunction now may not be believed.

Indeed, several former employees declined to be interviewed for this article, saying they did not want to contribute to any narrative that might appear to offer her redemption. Others said Ms. Bloomfield herself was such a harsh and demanding boss that they simply didn’t believe she was afraid of Mr. Friedman.

“She could be scary and intimidating,” said Katy Severson, a chef who worked under Ms. Bloomfield at the Spotted Pig for four years. “She did lose her temper, especially with people who didn’t care enough about the food.”

But Ms. Severson, like other employees, said she believed Ms. Bloomfield’s behavior was motivated by perfectionism, while Mr. Friedman was simply aggressive and volatile.

“I did feel like she truly cared and wanted me to be a better chef,” she said.

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Mr. Friedman and Ms. Bloomfield outside the Spotted Pig in the early days. When she arrived from England in 2003, she had never been to the United States and had never run a restaurant. CreditDavid Howells/Corbis, via Getty Images

In her interview, Ms. Bloomfield broke down in tears once: when she acknowledged the distance between the leader she had hoped to be and the leader she became.

At the River Café, the London restaurant where she acquired her most significant culinary training, she had learned that it was possible to run a kitchen with civility and respect. But she said that seemed impossible in her own kitchens — partly because of the restaurant group’s rapid expansion (eight restaurants on two coasts in 13 years) and constant turnover, but also because of her quick temper and untamable perfectionism.

“I have had many moments of anger and frustration in the kitchen,” she said. “It’s an intense place to be, for me and for anyone there with me. And sometimes that’s gotten in the way, and it’s hurt many people.”

Ms. Bloomfield described the arc of her career in America, when she got a call (via Jamie Oliver) about a job opportunity in New York 15 years ago, through the moment last year when she said she read to her horror, in the Times article, that the Spotted Pig’s third-floor party space was known to some people as “the rape room.”

Ms. Bloomfield arrived in New York in 2003 after a full-court press by Mr. Friedman, who had decided to open a British-style gastro pub in the West Village, and by his friend and investor Mario Batali, whom several women have accused of sexual harassment (and in two cases, sexual assault) at the Spotted Pig and other restaurants. (Mr. Batali has said his “behavior was wrong” and left daily operations of his restaurants, but denied engaging in any nonconsensual sex.)

Mr. Friedman, although he had no restaurant experience, was brimming with confidence and backed by celebrity investors like Jay-Z. Ms. Bloomfield was a 28-year-old unknown from Birmingham, England, who had never been to the United States and never been in charge of a kitchen. “It’s hard to believe now how ignorant I was then,” she said.

Her introduction to Mr. Friedman’s vindictive side came, she said, as they prepared to open the Spotted Pig and she expressed a mild dislike for some framed posters on the restaurant’s walls. He exploded in anger, threatening to have her work visa revoked if she criticized his taste again, she said. (Since the Spotted Pig was her sponsor, she would have lost her ability to legally work in the United States if she were fired. At that time, she was an employee, not a partner.)

Through a representative, Mr. Friedman denied that he ever threatened Ms. Bloomfield’s work visa. He added that he was “personally dismayed by Ms. Bloomfield’s unwarranted and false attacks,” and that he planned to comment further soon.

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Mr. Friedman, who had worked in the music industry, knew how to draw people in. The Spotted Pig, seen here in 2006, was perpetually crowded. CreditAlex di Suvero for The New York Times

Ms. Bloomfield said she realized early on that to survive in this new job, she needed an old kitchen skill: the ability to appear tough, harsh and thick-skinned. She, like most chefs at the time, had been trained in restaurant kitchens where shouting, sexism and slashing insults were the norm.

“I had never heard of H.R.,” she said, referring to company human-resources operations. “It just didn’t exist in the world I came from.”

Inside, she recalled, she was terrified of being branded a failure in the restaurant industry, and convinced that Mr. Friedman had the power to make that happen. She said Mr. Friedman frequently told her that he was the reason she had become famous and wealthy, and that he could undo her success with a few phone calls. (Several people have said that Mr. Friedman often retaliated against former employees by trying to prevent them from getting jobs in other restaurants.)

Mr. Friedman had worked in the music industry for years, and knew how to pull a crowd. The night the Spotted Pig opened in 2004, there was a line around the block. “At the time, I couldn’t understand how that happened,” Ms. Bloomfield said.

For the first two years, the ill-equipped kitchen felt to her like a war zone. “All I could think of to do was cook faster, and I realize now I wasn’t doing what I should have done: gather all the tools I needed to be a leader,” she said. The crowds and the pressure on her only intensified as the Spotted Pig won a Michelin star, and as the partners opened new restaurants like the John Dory and the Breslin.

They informally carved up the responsibilities: In general, Ms. Bloomfield was in charge of everything to do with food, and Mr. Friedman handled everything to do with guests. Each kept well away from the other’s staff and sphere of influence. This pattern set the stage for more than a decade of secrets and silence.

Ms. Bloomfield said that at the beginning, Mr. Friedman’s staff — hosts, servers, bartenders — seemed happy to work at the Spotted Pig. “They were making good money, they worked hard and then they got to sit down and drink and party with the boss and his friends,” she said.

As the number of employees increased, so did the chaos in Mr. Friedman’s orbit. Apart from the pattern of sexual harassment, dozens of employees say he constantly berated them for minor infractions, fired and rehired them at whim, and created a toxic atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Ms. Bloomfield said she knew about some of Mr. Friedman’s inappropriate behavior with female staff members because much of it took place publicly: hugging and flirting were routine. She knew that the third floor was a place where Mr. Friedman’s friends and guests indulged in alcohol, drugs, and inappropriate behavior, but said she never knew of incidents there that were coercive or physically abusive.

She said she was not told about episodes in which women employees said Mr. Friedman groped and kissed them, persuaded them to get into his car and tried to touch their breasts, and asked them to send him nude pictures. She said the staff, at Mr. Friedman’s direction, also concealed the extent of his offenses from her. (Multiple employees confirmed this; others said they did not inform Ms. Bloomfield because they believed she didn’t want to know.)

Still, Ms. Bloomfield was told about some serious incidents, and said she also confronted Mr. Friedman many times about his unprofessional behavior and verbal abuse.

“I would tell him that we need to be a better company and that we need to treat our staff well and that he needed to stop,” she said. “I thought I could change him. I thought if I was talking to him more and guided him, he would learn because I was the professional one, I was trying to teach him the way of the industry.”

(Mr. Friedman, through a representative, confirmed that he and Ms. Bloomfield had discussions of this nature, but that they also included employees’ complaints about “Ms. Bloomfield’s erratic behavior and verbal abuse.”)

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Ms. Bloomfield, left, with Michelle Petrulio, a chef who worked for the company on and off for 10 years.CreditLiz Barclay for The New York Times

He would agree and promise to do better, she said, then continue as if nothing had happened. And despite the ever-increasing chaos around her and the rising distress of the staff, she would put her head down and bury herself in the kitchen.

“It’s like I decided to control what I could control,” she said.

Those closest to her say it was a survival mechanism, not a heartless act or a business decision. “She was not a person who was well-versed in management,” said Michelle Petrulio, who worked for the partners on and off for a decade, and was the company’s culinary director when news of the harassment broke. “She was just as affected by Ken’s behavior as everyone else. She didn’t feel strong in that relationship. She felt fear.”

Many people confirmed that interpretation. Others scoffed at it, saying it was impossible that Ms. Bloomfield, especially in recent years, did not know how much power she had as a star chef.

Trish Nelson, a former server who said she experienced years of verbal abuse from Ms. Bloomfield and sexual harassment from Mr. Friedman and his friends at the Spotted Pig, including Mr. Batali, said Ms. Bloomfield “has always been out for herself. She was a perpetrator in a lot of this.”

She and others said Ms. Bloomfield wanted the fame and fortune that came with being a successful chef and restaurateur, but none of the management responsibility.

“We had a pretty good rapport, and I had a lot of respect for her,” said Natalie Saibel, a longtime server who emailed a formal complaint in 2015 to Ms. Bloomfield that Mr. Friedman had groped her. Ms. Bloomfield didn’t respond, passing the complaint to a manager, said Ms. Saibel, who was fired soon afterward. “That’s why it was doubly shocking and devastating that she did nothing to stop it.”

Ms. Nelson, Ms. Saibel and others said they had told Ms. Bloomfield about Mr. Friedman’s sexual harassment, but the chef seemed unwilling to get involved. They said that in the kitchen and in the dining room, the message from both employers was: “Suck it up. If you can’t handle it, you don’t deserve to work here.”

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“I failed a lot of people,” Ms. Bloomfield said. “That’s on my shoulders.”CreditAlex Welsh for The New York Times

Ms. Bloomfield said she had tried countless times to hire a human resources coordinator, so that she and Mr. Friedman would not be the only recourse for aggrieved employees. When a coordinator was finally hired in about 2014, she was let go within months: a decision by Mr. Friedman that Ms. Bloomfield said she was not consulted or informed about.

Finally, Ms. Bloomfield began exploring escape routes. She agreed to open two restaurants in California, she said, in hopes that she could put a continent between herself and Mr. Friedman. About two years ago, she said, she began quietly consulting with lawyers and a few trusted colleagues about how she might free herself.

“She didn’t talk about it very much — that’s April — but she had always said it was a very tough relationship and not a very fair relationship,” said Gavin Kaysen, a chef in Minneapolis and a longtime friend. But at a dinner the two cooked together in October 2016, more than a year before the Spotted Pig revelations, he said she had reached a new level of despair.

“I’d never seen her so defeated in her life,” he said.

By then, even some of Ms. Bloomfield’s most trusted lieutenants and loyal employees had begun to turn on her. They say she had made too many promises that she couldn’t or didn’t keep: that she would right the ship and stop staff turnover; that she would help them get the money and recognition they deserved; that she would get Mr. Friedman to stop the harassment.

Ms. Bloomfield should have known by then that Mr. Friedman would make it impossible to keep those promises, said Ms. Petrulio, the culinary director. “But it’s so simple to say now what she should have done then.”

The chef Traci Des Jardins, a friend of Ms. Bloomfield, said that early in her own career, she had partnered with a powerful man to create an acclaimed restaurant.

“Imagine how difficult it would be to be in partnership in your late 20s when you are so naïve and really don’t know anything about business but you have a burning desire to make great food,” Ms. Des Jardins said. “If you walk away, you would have had to walk away from all the success and a business you put your heart and soul into.”

She cautioned people not to brand Ms. Bloomfield as a collaborator because of her reputation as a tough boss. For women in restaurant kitchens in the 1990s, when both of them began cooking, it was the only way to survive, she said.

“Being a disciplinarian and being tough in the kitchen does not make you a tormentor.”

However the public ultimately views Ms. Bloomfield, her reputation is scarred in ways that will inevitably affect her future. In June, she announced that she will retain control of the Breslin and the John Dory Oyster Bar in New York’s Ace Hotel, Tosca Cafe in San Francisco and the Hearth & Hound in Los Angeles. (Her new partner is a restaurant management company that provides structures like a human resources department and formal hiring and firing procedures.) Mr. Friedman will keep the Spotted Pig. The fate of White Gold Butchers, which has been closed since August, is unclear. Last week, GFI Hospitality, the developer of New York’s Ace Hotel, sued Mr. Friedman for $5 million in damages, financial “misfeasance” and back rent connected to the Breslin and the John Dory Oyster Bar.

Meanwhile, Ms. Bloomfield has begun psychotherapy, is receiving executive coaching, and has repeatedly gathered her current restaurant staff in order to listen, reassure and apologize. (Through a representative, Mr. Friedman said that he also has spent time this past year in therapy, and that he has been “listening, thinking and learning from this experience.”)

Ms. Bloomfield has reached out to several chefs for advice too. Tom Colicchio said he told her, “You have to do the hard work, and that doesn’t mean put your head down and make good food. This is different work.”

But a big hurdle remains: contacting Mr. Friedman’s victims, who have become bitter as her silence stretched out for months.

“These women have been hurting and I feel horrified that I’ve done wrong by them,” she said. “I know I need to hear what happened to them.”

She plans to start reaching out soon, she said.

Julia Moskin, a Food reporter since 2004, writes about restaurants, chefs, trends and home cooking. She investigates the best recipes for kitchen classics in her video column Recipe Lab and was part of a team that won a Pulitzer Prize in 2018 for reporting on workplace sexual harassment. @juliamoskin • Facebook

Kim Severson is a Southern-based correspondent who covers the nation’s food culture and contributes to NYT Cooking. She has written four books and was part of a team that won a Pulitzer Prize in 2018 for public service for reporting on workplace sexual harassment issues. @kimseverson • Facebook