#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

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also on ff.net and ao3

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Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

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A/N: Part 2 of 2. Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me!

***

Killian

How do you feel about improv? ES

Trepidatious. KJ

What if I told you some random just gave me last minute tickets to a Jane Austen inspired improv drag show, and I have a spare? ES

Curiosity alone compels me to say yes. Pleasance? KJ

George Square. ES

Thank fuck. I forgot my umbrella. KJ

If Killian had any sense, he'd approach the month of August the same way Robin did every year. Which mostly amounted to renting his house out to a troupe of Hungarian acrobats for extortionate sums of money and taking off for the south of France, thus avoiding the whole sorry spectacle.

A privilege reserved for those not living out of their older brother's spare room. Nor stuck writing Fringe reviews for his ailing periodical.

He thought his latest was his best yet.

Do you value your time? Your money? Your life? Then walk, don't run, as far from this act as you can. No one this incompetent should be wielding chainsaws, let alone juggling them. I may have been the only one-handed man at the preview, but with this shambolic spectacle set to run for the rest of the week, I expect I won't be the last. 0 stars.

Liam had accused him of being deliberately cruel, but he hadn't seen the show firsthand. The phrase 'culpable and reckless conduct' came to mind. His review went up online, unchallenged.

To his great surprise, his favourite show so far had been the improv show Emma had dragged him along to. It had all the subtle snark and invariable romance of Austen's classic novels, with the added benefit of Emma nearly passing out from laughing so hard. That alone would have justified his five star review, but the cherry on the cake had been when the man dressed as the elderley Dowager had picked August out from the crowd, and made him part of the act.

Killian generally condemned the casual cruelty of audience participation. Indeed, he lived in constant fear of it at every show he reviewed. But when it came for a certain novelist, he found his views on the matter suddenly rather... fluid.

Try as he might, he couldn't see what Emma saw in the man. What hidden virtues he possessed that had provoked such a ferocious loyalty. Killian wasn't stupid enough to voice such thoughts, of course, but that hadn't stopped him trying to figure it out.

The opportunity to continue this study was surely the only reason he'd opened an unsolicited DM from the man himself, when he should have been watching a Swedish comedy troupe send up classic films in a series of skits.

We have a mutual friend in need. How's your schedule looking uhhh… now?

Killian looked back to the stage. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the red streamers might signify blood. They were either up to Carrie or Jaws.

Trouble? Killian typed back.

Emma. The next message read.

We're in a bar in Leith and things have gotten a little… messy.

Killian checked the time. Barely past one in the afternoon. And fucking Leith? That didn't bode well. But at the same time, his review of the show was supposed to be online within the hour.

With a growing sense of unease, he typed out his reply. Which pub?

***

Stepping into The Marksman on Duke Street was not unlike stepping back in time. More precisely, to somewhere smack dab in middle of the Thatcher era, when Leith was a byword for deprivation and whatever comes after heroin chic. It was charmless, grimy and depressing, and Killian might've never understood the appeal until he caught the sign in the window. It opened at 6am.

Trying to avoid the abject stares of the locals, Killian found his quarry sat at the end of the bar on mismatching stools. Emma slumped forward, her face hidden, but August turned around swiftly at his approach, the alarm in his eyes quickly giving way to recognition.

"Oh thank god." August swept off his barstool, his relief so palpable that Killian thought he might hug him. He didn't look well. Thoroughly debauched, if one might say so, and in desperate need of a bath.

"Nice place," Killian remarked drily. "A bit off the beaten path…"

August pinched the bridge of his nose, looking weary. Or… wearier. "It's been a long night. And morning." He glanced back to where Emma sat propped by the bar, apparently still completely unaware of his absence, and drew closer, his voice lowering.

"You know that Graham guy?"

Killian couldn't explain it, but something inside his chest caught. Like flint striking steel. "Aye," he growled, not liking where this was headed.

"Married," August supplied, without preamble. "She didn't know. No one knew. She ran into them holding hands in the Tron. Matching wedding bands. The whole bit. So she threw her beer in his face and called it a day, right? But this morning, no, yesterday morning, the wife showed up. At the apartment. Emma's apartment."

Killian's fist clenched by his side.

"Yeeaah. It got pretty heated. Long story short, it's been a day and a half. I don't even remember how we got here. I'm not sure I even know exactly where here is. I have to be on a train at 4 to King's Cross or my publisher is going to sue my ass. Now, I can trust you? To get her home safely? You look at her like you're half a drink away from belting out Jessie's Girl at any given moment. I didn't imagine that, did I?"

Of all the places to grudgingly admit his feelings, not least in confidence to this man he wasn't sure he even liked, The Marksman was not the venue he would have chosen. And yet.

"There's very little I wouldn't do for that woman."

He was caught by surprise when the man launched forward and kissed him on the cheek, more still when he went back for the other cheek. August grinned enormously, grasping Killian by the shoulders. "Welcome to the family! Please don't fuck it up." And then consulting his phone, "I really need to go."

August made short work of the rest of his goodbyes, pulling Emma into fierce hug from behind, whispering something into her ear as he let her go. Then, with a wink in Killian's direction and a kiss blown at the nearest crusty Leither, he picked up his messenger bag and fled onto the street.

Steeling himself after that prologue, Killian turned back to where Emma sat by the bar, unseeing reddened eyes peeking out from under a tangle of blonde hair. He pulled out August's vacated stool, and took a seat.

"Swan," he began, with an imaginary tip of his cap.

"Jones," she replied, her voice flatter than he'd ever heard it.

"Of all the gin joints…"

She grimaced. Though her frown was so pronounced already, it didn't make much of a change. "We don't talk about the gin."

"At least tell me it was the good stuff."

She tried to smile, but the action seemed to cause her pain. "Don't do that. Don't be nice to me right now."

"Why not? You're not the villain in this story."

A small noise escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "Sure feels like it."

"No, that's the supermarket gin talking. We've talked about this. Nothing good ever came from a clear spirit at 35p a measure."

She sank further forward in her seat, her forehead resting against the bar top. "Don't be cute. Please just leave me alone to die," she mumbled.

He couldn't resist tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, making sure she could see him. "I'm not going to do that. I have a duty of care."

"Why? Because you'd have to find someone else to write a column about?"

"No," he replied levelly. "Because you're my best friend."

That had her lifting her head off the bar, albeit wincing as she did so. "I thought Robin was your best friend?"

He tapped his chin. "No, it's definitely you."

She considered that. Though how much of her internal brain processes had survived the pickling process over the last 24 hours, Killian couldn't be certain.

Of course, it was at that moment their bartender appeared, a middle aged woman with an ill-fitting polo shirt and bright green acrylic nails she drummed against the bar top. "Another top up, hen?" She didn't even glance at Killian.

He put his hand over Emma's glass. "Actually, I'm afraid we're on our way out."

Their server didn't much like that, a hand finding her hip. "Well that's up for the lass to decide, no?"

"It's okay, Tracy," Emma said, managing a consoling smile. "He's a friend. Are we all settled up?"

"We are." She gave Killian a cool once over. "Friend, you say? Mind you keep it that way. Looks like nothing but trouble to me. And you still raw after the last one. Liars and cheats, the lot of them."

Killian thought to take offence, but Emma already had him by the arm, pulling him off his stool. "Thanks, Tracy. Can you call me a cab?"

***

Getting her into the cab took some doing, not least because she had to pause twice to throw up in the gutter, and the first guy had driven off. Fair play to him. Thankfully by the time the second cab arrived Emma's stomach had settled, and she spent the drive curled harmlessly against Killian's side.

"Your lassie alright?" the cabbie asked, as Killian half lifted, half dragged her from the backseat out onto the gravel driveway. "You need a hand?"

It was a testament to how preoccupied he was that Killian didn't even stop to consider that might've been a crack about his prosthetic until Emma was already inside and passed out on his bed.

He texted Elsa first. A simple heads up.

There's an unconscious woman in the house. Don't freak out. KJ

It went about as well as you'd expect.

At least he had sisterly back up when he broke the news to Liam that he wasn't getting his review.

Needless to say, by the time Emma raised her groggy head from his pillow, the house was no longer silent, and it was no longer still. Elsa had insisted on rushing home, and boyish shrieks permeated the air, punctuated by the usual crashing and banging.

Killian sat in his one armchair, an ugly monstrosity of purple velvet which had been forbidden from the rest of the house, sipping his tea as she came awake. It took some time. One eyelid slithered open. Then the other. Never both at the same time.

"Do I want to know why someone is screaming in the next room?" Her voice was scratchy, and he motioned towards the glass of water by the bedside.

"Nephews," Killian said by way of explanation, as she crawled forward to grasp the glass in both hands, shaking with the effort.

She took a long draught, surveying her surroundings. He wondered how much she remembered from the last two days, if anything. If she even remembered his arrival at The Marksman, or August's leaving. She examined the ornate cornices, and floating beams. The collection of spent paperbacks stacked by the bed and the shabby, unmatched furniture.

"Your house. Your room?"

"My room," he confirmed. "We have guest rooms, but they're upstairs. And quite frankly, just getting you this far was nightmare enough. You're heavier than you look."

He earned a pillow to the face for that remark. It still smelled of her, which in her current state, wasn't much of a testimonial.

"Shower?" he ventured.

"Please," she said, rolling over until she could place both feet on the floor.

"Second door on the right. Elsa left some things out. Towels. Fancy shampoo. Paracetamol," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Should be a set of clothes too."

She cringed. "Elsa knows I'm here?"

"Sorry. It's a new house rule of theirs. Radical honesty. Elsa knows you're having a rough time of it, and are convalescing. But that is the extent of her knowledge. Whether that remains the case, is entirely up to you."

"Right."

"Oh," he said, smacking his forehead. He scrabbled around on top of his dresser, before presenting her with a wooden triangle.

She took it automatically, seeming annoyed at herself for doing so. "Uh, thanks?"

"The bathroom door doesn't have a lock on it. Best wedge it under the door. Trust me when I say, you don't want Lachie walking in on you in the altogether. It's stressful for all involved."

"Good tip," she said, with a ghost of a smile.

She edged past him awkwardly to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She'd already slipped into the hallway when her head appeared back around the door.

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I'm horrendously hungover so you probably can't tell, but I appreciate, uh…" she waved the wedge around vaguely. "All this."

"Swan?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean this in the nicest possible way, but please do shut up," he said with a wink. "Also, you're taking me out for pancakes after, so don't be too long."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, am I just?"

"You are indeed. Best thing for a gin hangover, in my limited experience. And it was very generous of you to offer."

"Very generous," she agreed, dubiously. "And Killian?

"Aye?"

"You're so full of shit. But... I do love pancakes. And one more thing?"

"Hmm?"

She kicked a toe into the carpet, eyes evasive. "You're sort of my best friend, too." Then she disappeared back behind the door, leaving Killian slack jawed.

***

He'd nearly finished two chapters of his book by the time Emma returned from her trip to the bathroom, shower soft and minty fresh.

"Better?" he asked, putting the novel aside.

"Much," she agreed. "Though full disclosure, I think I just used a $300 tube of lotion, and I kinda smell like a baby Porsche."

"The very best kind of Porsche," Killian assured her, offering her his prosthetic to take. "They're terrors once they hit the teenage years. Shall we?"

They crossed Bruntsfield Links just after sunset, the sky still streaked with pink and orange. He'd always loved summers in Scotland, that neverending twilight. It almost made shivering through six months of winter worthwhile. He was so busy admiring the scene, he nearly missed it when Emma detached herself from his arm, stopping in her tracks.

"Emma?"

She was standing entirely still, her eyes shut.

"Are you alright, love?"

Her eyes flickered open, almost surprised to see him still standing there. "Sorry, just… cataloguing."

"Cataloguing," Killian repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah, smartass," she said, walking forward to loop her arm under his again. "Cataloguing. Sometimes I forget, but this-" she indicated the kaleidoscope sky, the green-gold expanse of grass disappearing into the distant smudge that was Arthur's Seat, the group of laughing teenagers nearby trying to finish their mini golf game before they lost the light, "-Sometimes I still have to pinch myself."

She didn't elaborate, and Killian found himself oddly lost for words. He just reached over to squeeze her hand, and led her back towards the city lights.

For the time of year, they got lucky. The line was short, and it wasn't long before they were led to a red vinyl booth, complete with its very own mini jukebox. They both stared at it for a good minute before Emma fished a spare pound out of her pocket, and dropped it onto the table between them. "Your call. I'm going to the bathroom. Anything but Don't Stop Believin'."

Lord help him, but he thought he might love her.

He settled for a less foreboding tune, which morphed into another, then another, before he was fishing out his own coins to keep the party going. If he didn't know her any better, he might've thought she'd done a runner on him. Fortunately, he did know her better. Or at least, he was starting to.

She came back just in time for the guitar solo in The Chain, her I'm-bearing-up smile indicating she was doing nothing of the sort.

"Ruby texted," she explained, taking her seat opposite him. "About twenty times. She wouldn't stop until I FaceTimed her. I miss anything?"

"Just side one of Rumours. And your drink order." He indicated the glass of fizzy orange liquid in front of her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fanta?"

"Irn-Bru. Best hangover cure there is."

She cast him a doubtful look.

"I'm serious. There's been studies."

"Oh well, if there's been studies." She slid the glass minutely closer, but didn't partake. Instead she watched as Killian lifted his own glass, and made a face.

He lowered his glass. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how I'm never drinking again. I didn't even know they served beer here."

"They do, but this is Dry Ginger."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ginger ale? You?"

Killian shrugged. "It's something I'm trying. Like a cleanse. But instead of drinking juice and doing yoga, I drink post-mix dry ginger and be less of a twat."

"Sobriety." Emma slapped her hand against the table. "I wish I'd thought of that. But I've barely seen you, when did you decide this?"

"Roughly…" he counted back the days, "43 days ago." When I thought I'd lost your friendship forever. But he didn't have to say it. From the look on her face, she already knew the significance.

"Huh." Emma sat back in her seat, absorbing that. But if she was planning on expanding on that thought, she was saved by the arrival of their waitress, who was all too eager to expound on the daily specials.

By the time they were alone again, Emma had cracked and was halfway through her Irn-Bru.

"I mean, it's not repellent…" she offered, by way of grudging approval.

"Trust me, it works." And then because he felt like they'd danced around it long enough, "So do you want to talk about it?"

She set down her glass, letting her fingers trace along the edge of the table top. "Nope. But somehow I feel like we're going to anyway."

"It was only about eight hours ago you wanted me to leave you to die in Leith's most depressing pub. I feel like it warrants at least a conversation."

She grimaced at the memory. Or perhaps where the memories ought to have been. It was hard for him to be sure.

"I fell in love with a married woman once. If you're worried about my judgement, you needn't be."

He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. This sudden urge to talk about Milah. But it was how they'd always operated, wasn't it? If he wanted Emma to take down her walls, he had to offer up a few bricks from his own. Well, this was more of a boulder, really, but at least he had her attention.

She snorted. "I wasn't in love with Graham."

"So what's the problem?"

"Because," she reasoned, tears springing into her eyes. "It's just so fucking mortifying. To be played for a fool, again. I thought I was smarter than that. I thought I could just, I don't know, flirt with a cute, intelligent guy and feel good about myself for five fucking seconds without it ending with his wife beating down my door demanding to know if I'd fucked her husband!"

She'd gotten a little loud towards the end there, with more than a few wary eyes glancing their way. Killian quickly stood up, and made his way over to her side of the booth, slipping in beside her. It was a tight fit, but it did succeed in sheltering her from most of the stares.

"Alright, so he's a tosser."

Another snort.

"Liam's bookie knows a guy. I could make a few calls?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Don't tempt me right now. I just feel so stupid. But like, in an angry way."

"You're not stupid for being taken in by him. It's not a weakness to want to see the best in people, Emma. In fact, considering how many people in your life have disappointed you, myself included, I'd say it's pretty bloody brave."

Emma shook her head. "Is it though? I saw red flags. Even from the start he was kind of flaky. I wasn't even sure if I really liked him. It just appealed to my vanity, that he seemed to like me. So don't I deserve this? Just a little?"

"No." Killian wasn't sure where the vehemence came from, but he could feel it, welling up. "No, you don't deserve to be lied to, and dragged into the middle of someone else's messed up marriage without your knowledge or consent. No, you don't deserve being made to feel like the side-piece. You're not the side-piece. You're the heroine. And he's just a fucking wanker. What you deserve..." He looked up to see their server approaching the table, platters piled high with maple syrup topped goodness. He shot Emma a smile. "What you deserve, is pancakes."

***

It would've been remiss of him not to foot the bill, after his earlier declaration about her deserving pancakes, so there'd been a little bit of an argument about that as they wended their way down Clerk Street in the growing darkness. That Emma could argue about not paying for the pancakes he'd goaded her into in the first place, was a testament to the healing powers of Irn-Bru and a triple stack. No truly hungover person would have committed to such a futile battle.

But when they arrived at the beginning of her street, Emma stopped arguing and grabbed a hold of Killian's arm, pulling him up short.

She was shaking her hands out, like she was fighting off an attack of nerves, and Killian was instantly on the defensive. "Swan?"

She stopped when he said her name, plastering on what seemed to him a rather brittle smile. "Hey. Sorry. I'm just wondering, would you do me a favour?"

He had to chuckle at that. "Swan, if the last twelve hours have proven anything, it's that yes, I am available for favours. Unless of course they involve you paying me back for the pancakes. Because I'm afraid I'm rather immovable on that front."

"Great. So umm… Ruby has this theory."

"Ruby has a theory?" he repeated, hoping at some point, things would start making sense. "What manner of… theory?"

"Oh, god this is so stupid," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just going to say it. I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want you to kiss me."

Something very violent was happening inside Killian's chest, a feeling which was neither happiness, nor disappointment, but a crushing combination of the two. He felt hot and cold. He felt light-headed.

"You want-" he started.

Emma's eyes were screwed shut, as if bracing for a blow. Or in this case, the fallout. She already had regrets. And more than that, it had been Ruby's idea. But why would Ruby…?

Of course.

The best way to get over a man, was to get under a new one. Wasn't that the old adage?

It wasn't about him. It wasn't about them.

No, she'd been clear. I want you to kiss me. She'd chosen him. She trusted him to be the one to soothe her wounded pride. Maybe she'd hoped it would be him. Maybe he was just the most convenient option. In any case, the wondering would certainly kill him.

But not as much as going through with it.

He reached out and took her hand, waiting until she opened her eyes. By Christ, people weren't supposed to look so beautiful by yellow street light. It wasn't scientific. And yet.

"No."

Now it was her turn to look like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Oh." She made to release her hand from his, but he held firm. In fact, he pulled her closer, just a little.

"No, I'm not going to kiss your bruised pride back into place. Because I promise you, it's going to heal just fine on its own. You don't need a kiss from me or anyone to remind you what you're worth. You never have. It's one of my favourite things about you. Understand?"

Her reply was a little choked up when it came. "Got it."

She gravitated closer, her eyes shining, and he felt like he was losing his mind. He was certainly losing his nerve. He settled instead for raising her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles.

"That's one for the road."

He released her then, though nearly every part of his was screaming at him to do the opposite. Thankfully, she looked just as shaken as he felt. He nearly twisted his ankle in a gutter trying to put a little distance between them. And then he had one perfect surge of stupid confidence, and turned back to face her. She was still standing under the streetlight where he'd left her, looking oddly incomplete.

"Will you do me a favour, Swan?" he called out.

She held up her hands in a helpless shrug. "Sure."

"When the time is right, ask me again."

Then with his heart hammering a million miles a minute, he turned away and slipped into the adjoining street, and back into the night.

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #the emotional return #been a while...

[katie-dub]

Hello my dear, let me try this again: A9, B6, C9, and D5 please? Thank you!!

Awww thanks for asking - twice!

A9 Who was your first ship?

Answered here

B6 What is your favourite story trope? Why?

Listen, guys, I am friends to lovers trash. Trash I tell you. FOR FRIENDS TO LOVERS. (This is the 4th time I’ve been asked about my trope loves, I’m getting suspicious that you guys are messing with me now.)

Here are some friends to lovers fics I love, in no particular order and with great apologies to anyone I have missed:

A Grande Mocha and a Brand New Life by @phiralovesloki​

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend by @blessed-but-distressed​

present all your pretty feelings by midwestwind (if they’re on tumblr, I don’t know their tag!)

What We Wouldn’t Do by @sambethe​

all our friends want us to fall in love by midwestwind again

It Was Certain by @tnlph

The 12 Tropes of Christmas by @lovethatshit

You can find more friends to lovers recs in my imaginatively titled, friends to lovers tag

C9 What show did you really try to watch, but you just couldn’t?

I didn’t really try all that hard, but I didn’t really get into Peaky Blinders. That said I only watched one episode and I’d be willing to go back and give it another shot

D5 How many authors are you subscribed to?

Only 3? Apparently? I think I forget that’s a thing I can do! D’oh!

[let-it-raines]

@csficrecmonday; @blessed-but-distressed:

A Somewhat Terrible Idea: When Emma Swan gets an invitation to her ex's wedding, she isn't expecting to find it still hurts. Determined not to "lose the break-up", Emma recruits the snarky Irishman she chases down bail jumpers with, to assist her in her somewhat ill-conceived plan to save face. Absolutely nothing could go wrong, right? Captain Swan AU. M for swears.

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend: Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she's winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

Ends, Ways, Means, Risk: Sheriff David Nolan is stepping down, leaving his two best deputies to decide between themselves who's going to replace him. Will it be his daughter, Emma? Or Killian Jones, the guy she's been sleeping with on the DL? Both of them want the job. But with just 4 days until the public announcement, how far will they go to get the other to back down? CS AU. M.

Fast Friends:  Our heroes have returned from their successful rescue mission from Neverland. The Charmings have thrown a celebratory bash, and all of Storybrooke is invited. But not everyone is having a good time. And as life returns to what passes for normal in Storybrooke, there is always another dreaded gathering in the offing. What are two loners to do? Captain Swan. Canon Divergence.

#csfrm #cs fic rec #cs ff #cs fic #queue poetic noble land mermaid

[distant-rose]

Happy Monday! I hope everyone is having a wonderful day. I, for one, am a very busy law student who is trying very hard not to fail property law so I can actually fucking graduate and not die. Anyway, there are so many fucking talented writers in this fandom, but I must give a shoutout to the wonderful and stunning @blessed-but-distressed. I’ve been a great Rachel fan for awhile. I remember reading her fic for CSLB almost two years ago and being so impressed with it that I went through her entire archive and started devouring all of her finished works. They’re just so tightly written, and that’s because she puts so much thought into planning it out. I was very fortunate to be able to work with her over last summer for an fandom event and was privileged to get to a behind-the-scenes look at how she story builds, and let me tell you her story planning puts everyone to shame. It’s so well-thought out and methodical. I wish I was that organized. She deserves a lot of love and I’m gonna do my best to give her some the praise she deserves.

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend | MC | Rated: T | Status: In Progress

Summary: Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she's winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. Ro’s Notes: If you’re not reading this fic, I’m going to find you and I’m going to hit you in the face with a fish. It’s a really beautiful story and I cannot wait to see it finished. The way Rachel writes both Emma and Killian’s voices is just so distinct. On top of that, they seem like real ass relatable living and breathing humans, instead of just characters living wish fulfillment lives that we all want but can’t obtain. 

Fast Friends | MC | Rated: T | Status: Complete

Summary: Our heroes have returned from their successful rescue mission from Neverland. The Charmings have thrown a celebratory bash, and all of Storybrooke is invited. But not everyone is having a good time. And as life returns to what passes for normal in Storybrooke, there is always another dreaded gathering in the offing. What are two loners to do?  Ro’s Notes: Without a doubt one of the most underrated canon divergent fics of all time. It’s a work of art and somehow has less than thousand views, which is a travesty to me. The nuance and natural progression of Emma and Killian’s relationship is so well-developed that I could weep and I almost want to just throw canon out the window and just have this exist as what happens instead. It’s that good. 

Ends, Ways, Means, Risk. | One Shot | Rated: M | Status: Complete

Summary: Sheriff David Nolan is stepping down, leaving his two best deputies to decide between themselves who's going to replace him. Will it be his daughter, Emma? Or Killian Jones, the guy she's been sleeping with on the DL? Both of them want the job. But with just 4 days until the public announcement, how far will they go to get the other to back down? Ro’s Notes: This is literally one my favorite AUs better and I will tell you why - Rachel’s depiction of Emma. The constant theme in this show and in a lot of fanfiction revolving around Killian making all the grand gestures and sacrifices for Emma and Emma really not reciprocating it...which is, in my opinion, super inequitable and it’s an issue I have a lot with fics...that issue doesn’t exist here. It’s actually really refreshing. Relationships are about sacrifice and compromise, but it should’t be one-sided and that’s exactly what this goddamn story is about. 

#cs ff #cs fic rec #csfrm #cs fic rec monday #blessed-but-distressed #my fic recs

[shady-swan-jones]

Hey! Could you please recommend some of your favorite long multichapter CS modern AU fics? I don't really care about the trope, tbh. I've already read tons, but I'm looking for some more, and those I find are either abandoned, or just awfully written. And well, i really like your recs, so I trust you will link me to some amazing ones!

it’s my pleasure. i’m recommending you complete or active multichapters

Lightning Strikes the Heart by @thebravestprincess

Dark Horse by @initiala . in the same universe: Horse of a Different Color , The Forest for the Trees 

Fragile Design and Make You Feel My Loveby @xerxesrises

the importance of being idle by @captainjayharkness

A Lost Boy’s Guide to Hollywood by @blessed-but-distressed, FindEmmaSwanAFriend , Harsh Realms , A Somewhat Terrible Idea

when we were young by@bisexual-killian-jones

As Real As You Want It To Be , More Than A Memory and Unfinished Business by @ive-always-been-a-pirate

Some Sort of Neighborly and Guilty, Your Honor by @shipping-goggles

Headlights Fading by @evil–isnt–born

Hit Me With Your Best Shot by @iminwinnipegthatsincanada

Time upon Once ,The Pirate Chef , The Rembrandt Files, Separate Lives and Of Thieves, Smugglers and Reformed Hearts by @lenfaz

Can’t Erase Me by @icapturedkindness

Lethologica by @lifeinahole27

Air of Hope by @madquerade

A Million Shores and Bays by @piratesails

Amaranthine by @caprelloidea

Something Old, Something New by @siren-lungs

Instantly in Love by @haleigh91

Freaky Friday, Love and Other Bruises , Walking in a Straight Line and Team Bonding by @msgenevieve447

What the Water Gave Me by Eaasybugboy

#cs fic recs #cs multichapter #cs active mcs #cs complete #cs ff #answered #Anonymous

[zadien]

Fanfiction Appreciation

So, I don’t really read much fanfiction but this is the stuff I’ve read recently and enjoyed: 

Naruto

An Inch of Gold by Kuri Quinn. Fandom: Naruto. Pairing: Sakura/Sasuke. Team 7 is sent on a mission to investigate a disturbance outside of the village, where they encounter an unconscious girl in a crater. The mysterious Sarada insists she's a shinobi from the Hidden Leaf trying to rescue her teammates. When the team discovers she possesses a Sharingan, things become even more unbelievable. [Part of the Legacy of Fire Series] ---- This is so well written and beautifully in character, full of action and not a whole bunch of romance because it’s back in the past and they’re all kids, but seriously it’s so much fun! Watching Sasuke be super suspicious and Sakura being a little jealous and Kakashi just eyeing the whole thing like “well shit”. It’s fun!! 

Labyrinth

The Goblin Market by Viciously Witty. Pairing: Jareth/Sarah. Nine years after defeating the Labyrinth, Sarah is in Ireland - a land of old magic, where legend suggests her victory comes with a price and her story is far from finished. Something ancient has been set in motion and Sarah finds herself at the centre of a very old, very Goblin, tradition. As time passes, fruit ripens... Let the feast begin at the Goblin Market. ---- So anything by this writer is really good but I’m going to focus on this story because it’s complete. It’s full of fantasy and mythology and quite a good depiction of Ireland. Funny and hot, and also so well written again. 

Once Upon a Time

Tripping over the Blue Line by WelpThisIsHappening. Pairing: Captain Swan. It's a transition. From one team to another, one coast to another and Emma doesn't care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all. He's done. One more season and he's a free agent and he's out. It's win or nothing for Killian. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn't going to change that. At all. They are both horrible liars. ----- Captain Swan and Ice Hockey. I don’t need to say anymore. It’s just the best combination ever and it’s really wonderfully sweet and funny and ICE HOCKEY!! Okay, it’s Rangers, but I can deal. It’s Killian Jones in a hockey uniform! Technically I didn’t read this recently, but there’s been a few sequels and spin-offs and they’re just so worth the read.  

It’s Not Easy Being Green by Iverna  Pairing: Captain Swan. Killian acquiesces to what he thinks are Emma’s wishes, and backs off. And that’s just fine by her. Really. She has no regrets at all. He’s perfectly free to do whatever he wants. She’s moving back to New York anyway. Okay, so she keeps putting off the move. And yeah, the sight of him laughing and bantering and going on boat trips with other people, especially gorgeous women (of which Storybrooke really has an unfair amount), is infuriating for some reason. But it’s not like she wants him. It’s not like he’s handsome and charming and far more appealing than he has any right to be. And she is definitely, absolutely, not jealous. (Canon divergence during 3b, crack with a generous side of feelings and angst and conversations that, alas, didn’t happen in canon. Updates every week!) ------ The mutual pining is to die for in this one, even though it’s all in Emma’s POV we know enough about Killian to understand the longing looks. And it’s nice watching Emma sort through her feelings and she has feelings, oh my god. It’s just a fun fic. 

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend by randomsquare Pairing: Captain Swan. Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she's winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU ------ And finally this fic, it’s not complete yet but we’re getting to the good part and it’s updated pretty frequently. And the witty banter between Emma and Killian just snaps, they’re so sarcastic and I love their text messages and it’s set in Edinburgh which is a beautiful city. Honestly such a good read. I can’t wait to read more of it and see what these two characters become by the end of this fic :) 

#fanfic recs #fanfic writers appreciation day #captain swan #the labyrinth #sasusaku

[yeehawbisexualold]

What are some of the current work in progress fics you're following??

Boy, am I following a lot of fics rn and boy, do I wish my memory was better because I’m tired and nothings coming to me so bear w me here.

I definitely remember I’m following this fic and not because she just updated it but because it’s unforgettable. The Price by @alchemistc is just……. soo good. Lieutenant dark!Swan AU: Once every fifteen years, the Dark One has a choosing in which she selects a man or woman for her kingdom and takes them away until it’s time to chose another. It is said to be a great honor but Killian doesn’t see it that way. This fic is unbelievable, really.  She is one of the most talented writers in this fandom or any other. I am constantly blown away by her writing. You know when you read something, imagery or a metaphor or whatever, and it’s so beautiful that you just have to take a moment and sit back and process it because it was just that amazing. Yeah, this is like every damn paragraph in this fic. It’s currently at Ch. 9 w 39.9k words. Rated T.

Special Instructions by @bleebug : Modern AU. A hurt and drunk Emma orders a pizza with specific instructions. The delivery guy is attractive and drunk Emma doesn’t handle that well. Adorableness ensues. Killian is a precious pizza delivering cupcake. Seriously, just a really adorable fic and a really fun read. I can’t wait to see where these two losers go. Currently on Ch. 5 w 15k words. Rated E.

FindEmmaSwanAFriend by @blessed-but-distressed : Modern AU. On a whim, Emma Swan moves to Scottland. Her friends at home, with good intentions, place an ad in the paper and #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Killian Jones, a journalist, looking for a new subject for his article, takes interest in her. This is just???? Wonderful and interesting and unique. I really enjoy her writing style and how she switches between the actual narrative of Emma and Killian’s lives and Killian’s column. Currently on Ch 6 w 21k wors. Rated M.

Casualties by @legendofthephoenixcs / @poetic-justice-96 : A fake relationship AU. Emma Swan is the star of a popular tv show based on a military lifestyle like the one she was forced to leave behind. To quiet questions of her past, she must begin a fake relationship with her co-star, Killian Jones. This is one’s a little different from your regular celebrity or fake relationship trope and I’m very interested in seeing where it goes. Currently at Ch. 7 w 23.9k words. Rated M.

Caesura by @seastarved : Historical AU. Set during WW1. Killian is an artist, recovering physically and emotionally from his time as a Lieutenant in the Navy. Emma is a nurse. A story two people finding one another and learning how to breathe again. One of the things I love about this fic is how much effort has been put into maintaining historical accuracy. Very angsty (God, Killian is so angsty) and simply beautiful. Her writing is breathtaking and she does a great job of transporting you to this time. Currently at Ch. 10 w 64k words. Rated T. (Link directs to a consolidated post w all chapters and a set of beautiful manips. Chinx is seriously like the most talented graphic maker in this fandom and her manips for this fic are stunning)

This fic has actually been complete for about a month but there is the possibility of an epilogue, I believe, and I haven’t put it on a list yet and it deserves recognition. A Fairytale Beginning by @pocket-anon : Enchanted AU. Captain Hook, on a quest to kill the Dark One, winds up in the strange land of New York City. There he meets Henry and his mother Emma, who has no time for fairytale nonsense. This fic is just a big bunch of wonderful. I absolutely adore the movie Enchanted and Killian and Emma fit into the roles of these characters so well. 9 chapters w 61k words. Rated G.

And lastly, a fic I am super excited for and that nearly gave me a heart attacked when I noticed it was posted, Cast by the Light by @ripplestitchskein : s3 Canon Divergence. Killian sacrifices himself to obtain the Black Fairy’s wand and Emma is left to reunite Killian w his shadow. I haven’t even read it yet but everything she does is magic so I’m pumped. Currently at Ch. 1 w 7k words. Rated M.

#anon #captain swan #cs fic rec #cs ff

[lizacstuff]

Hi there! Do you know of a fic I think capped “finding Emma swan a friend” I thought I had it saved but my phone crashed and got rid of almost everything

Oh I know this one! I’m terrible at finding fics, but this time you’re in luck, such a fun story.  

I’m pretty sure you’re looking for #findemmaswanafriend by @blessed-but-distressed. Here’s her tumblr tag for it or on AO3.

#captain swan #asklizac #cs fic find #Anonymous

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3.

***

PSA: This is not a chapter of #FindEmmaSwanAFriend, but a complementary work, Killian’s column in the August edition of Saorsa. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

August 2017

Killian Jones 

No shortage of column inches have been devoted to the spectacle that is Edinburgh in August. The crowds. The performances. The inflated prices. The rising stars. The flyers. Oh, the flyers. It is a truth universally acknowledged that we’re just as proud of our world-class festivals as we are passionate about complaining our way through them, year after year.

It’s a funny time. There’s something in the air. A frisson, if you’ll excuse my French. How could it not, with so many creative types crowding in so few square miles, all just trying to eke out their own space to exist, and be seen, and be heard?

The more jaded among us might rubbish the Fringe as the antics of overindulged, English theatre students. I’ve certainly been known to cast similar aspersions, especially after being charged a tenner for a humble pint by some profiteering bastard on the High Street. But I have to admit, I respect the courage it takes to step in front of a crowd. To risk humiliation. To risk success, which comes with its own set of complications. To be seen is to be vulnerable.

Which brings us around, in a serpentine sort of way, to the lovely Emma Swan and her forays into friend-making. We’ve had a few hits, and we’ve had a few misses. But what we haven’t properly discussed, is what it costs to make the attempt. Simply put, you have to stick your neck out. 

You don’t need me to tell you that people, as a collective, are not an entirely wholesome lot. With every new acquaintance and every new interaction, you’re rolling the dice. Maybe they’ll be your new best mate. Maybe you just won’t have much in common. Or perhaps, they’ll be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Emma is fairly guarded, as a rule. Trusting people does not come easily. But some months ago, she made a new connection. Swapped numbers. Made plans for cocktails. She stuck her neck out. Recently, it has become clear that this person betrayed that trust, by misrepresenting themselves and what they sought from the relationship.

So was Emma wrong to trust this person? No, I don’t think so.

The takeaway here is not that all people are bastards. It’s that making friends is not a spectator sport. There’s always risk. I’d argue for a woman alone in a new city, there’s probably a few extra I’ve never had to take into account myself. But if the goal is a genuine, lasting friendship based on more than the most surface-level interests, you need to take a chance, and hand someone the power to disappoint you.

Sometimes, that’s the end. They get struck from the Christmas card list. Blocked on Facebook. You move on with your life. And sometimes it’s just the first rut on the bumpy road to something sort of life affirming.

To be seen is to be vulnerable. Sometimes you get a 1 Star review in The Scotsman, complete with snide advice to not quit your dayjob. Sometimes you get ghosted by that promising new Tinder prospect. And sometimes... you go get pancakes with someone who knows their way around a Sopranos reference.

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend #slice of life #cs ff #cs au #cs fic

[katie-dub]

B5, C1

B5 Which story have you read more than any other? How many times?

AO3 is currently being very awkward about telling me how many times I’ve read these fics, which is probably just as well, assume an embarrassingly high number. 

A Grande Mocha and a Brand New Life by @phiralovesloki is a comfort fic of mine, it just hits a sweet spot for me of substantial fluff that I adore. And I just re-read #FindEmmaSwanAFriend by @blessed-but-distressed because her words are a thing of banter and beauty and I adore them.

C1 What trope are you tired of reading? Why?

The beauty of the CS fandom is that it’s large enough to not get tired of tropes -- there are things that I don’t care for in fic, but there’s plenty of other fic that does suit me just perfectly so I just quietly avoid the things that aren’t my jam and revel in the sweet tropey goodness that I love.

The Fleabag fandom is rife with priest kink though. Guess that’s understandable, but yeah, that’s why I’m not reading as much now.

Send me a reader ask!

[donteattheappleshook]

Ugh this new temp job I started has left me so busy and exhausted that I have no time or energy to read any of the amazing cs fanfic that I was so deep into and obsessed with before I started working (seriously I keep falling asleep before I even have the fics open) and I feel like I’m going through withdrawal from not reading Time Upon Once by @lenfaz, Dark Horse by @initiala and #FindEmmaSwanaFriend by @blessed-but-distressed. I’m tagging you all so you can prepare yourselves for the onslaught of flailing that your inboxes will go through in 2 weeks when I can finally FINALLY devour your beautiful fics to my hearts content!

#cs fanfic #cs fic rec #late night ramblings #i miss my fanfiction!!

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 1 of 2. We’ll get there when we get there.

***

Emma

 It had been building for weeks. Months, really. 

It began with a series of fences up on the Castle Esplanade, robbing the selfie-stick set of their outlook towards Arthur’s Seat. Before long it became a full-blown construction site, scaffolds looming up on either side of the tarmac like a bad omen. 

Then came the anti-terrorist bollards on the Mile, at once ugly and terrifying in their design. By the time the placards went up at the tail end of July, you could feel it in the air, like an encroaching thunderstorm.

August.

For as long as she’d lived in Edinburgh, Emma had heard the war stories. 

A bloody nightmare, was how Killian had once phrased it. Imagine, if you will,  if every insufferable wanker in London with even the slightest dramatic inclination took it upon himself-

Or herself, Tink had interrupted.

Or herself, he’d amended, with a roll of his eyes, to decamp 400 miles up the East Coast line, en masse. And not just for a weekend, either. An entire month. And then imagine they proceed to spend that time putting on dodgy comedy shows, getting pissed as newts, and trying to get off with each other.

Don’t forget the inflated prices, Will had cut in.

The traffic, Tink lamented.

Hipsters with posh accents taking up all the seats in your local, Will added mournfully.

The flyers, Killian sighed. At that, the other two groaned.

So it’s busy? Emma had asked.

Aye, Swan, Killian had replied, a weary glint in his eye. It’s busy.

 ***

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe them, exactly. She’d seen the crowds at Christmastime, swelling up around the markets in Princes Street Gardens. She’d stared the drunken aftermath of Hogmanay in the face, and lived to tell the tale. She knew busy.

The Festival was, well… most days it wasn’t unlike navigating the Battle of Thermopylae. Every major thoroughfare, every centrally located eatery turned into a desperate crush of bodies, all attempting to coexist in too little available space. And there on the periphery the thespians lay in wait, ready to exploit any signs of weakness.

The first few days, she took every flyer on offer. It was the polite thing to do. But as her bag, and the crowds swelled, she was forced to reassess. By week’s end Emma learned to do as the locals did, keeping her head down, headphones in, and her hands stuffed in her pockets at all times.

So when August, the man, promised Emma he could sneak her into the green room at the Book Festival, she took her chance to escape the rabble.

Compared with the madness up on the Mile, the Book Festival in Charlotte’s Square was an oasis of calm. The crowd skewed older, and it showed. They sat drinking up the sun in plastic lawn chairs, whiling away the hours until the next panel or signing with the unhurried air of the newly retired. Yet even as she sipped her overpriced plastic cup of gin, Emma felt content.

It was summer. She was on vacation. And she was one Q & A session away from having her apartment all to herself again.

“Emma!” Her houseguest fell onto the grass beside her, spilling half of his gin in the process.

“You got them?” Emma asked, leaning over to top up his drink with some of hers.

Taking a few surreptitious glances in either direction, August unzipped his jacket, and tossed something into Emma’s lap. “I’m a man of my word.”

Emma wouldn’t go quite that far, but she snatched it up anyway. It was a sweater, pale blue with a prominent STAFF designation across the back. Her ticket into the green room. “And where did you get that? Did you slip some poor underpaid usher a tenner, or something?”

August just tapped the side of his nose, and smiled his usual mysterious smile. 

Tamping down her urge to kick him, Emma sighed and pulled the sweater over her head. It was a little big on her, but not comically so. She rolled up the sleeves, and waved a little to get August’s attention.

“What do you think? Do I look like I’d volunteer at a Book Festival?”

“No,” he replied, without looking at her. “And I think your columnist just came out of the Zadie Smith signing. Kevin?”

She squinted against the sun, to where the crowd was pouring out from the Signing Tent. Sure enough, there was a familiar monochromatic figure loping his way across the square. It’d been more than a month since she’d seen him, but if the signature walk hadn’t given him away, the outfit would’ve. Who else would insist on black leather in the middle of summer? 

“Killian,” Emma corrected automatically, already regretting rising to the bait.

August knew full well who Killian was. He’d Facebook stalked him the same as Ruby had. He read his columns religiously, picking them apart in their group chat with the zeal of a literature major on Adderall. He just liked being a dick.

 As they emerged from the throng, Emma saw the petite woman at Killian’s side, matching his stride in impressively tall heels. 

How does she walk in those things? Emma wondered to herself. But before she could voice this aloud, August was already on his feet.

“I’m going to go say ‘hi’.” There was a twinkle in his eye, one she didn’t much like the look of. 

“August...” Emma gave a low warning, but it was too late. He’d already passed her the last of his drink, and disappeared across the square.

Lord help her.

Downing the last of the gin, Emma straightened her sweater one last time and went after him.

***

August wasn’t famous, exactly. His debut, a semi-autobiographical account of his early twenties backpacking through South East Asia, had made some waves when it first came out. There’d been movie interest. A profile in the New Yorker. Everyone was a sucker for that foster-kid-made-good fairytale.

But when he switched focus to fantasy fiction, his agent jumped ship. Likewise, most of his readership. These days, he was what Emma might charitably call a “midlist author.” Consistent, but not exactly setting the world on fire. Mostly, he survived under the radar, letting the royalties from his successful debut prop up his middling career. But every once in a while, he’d run into a fan in the wild, and things would get... strange.

When Emma finally caught up to August, she came to two sudden realizations;

On closer inspection, the woman with the impressive ability to navigate across grass with spike heels was none other than Belle. Librarian Belle. As in, I-really-like-sad-songs-and-married-a-complete-douchebag Belle. 

Belle was staring at August with the kind of gobsmacked, I-just-swallowed-a-goldfish expression that could only mean one thing: She was a fan.

“You know August Booth?” Belle shout-whispered to Killian. The hand clinging tightly to Killian’s bicep might’ve stirred Emma’s interest, if she didn’t think it was all that was keeping the girl upright.

Killian seemed entirely puzzled. “Err… in passing?” He looked from August to Emma, searching for a lifeline. 

“You’re a Swords of Storybrooke fan, I take it?” Emma asked, helpfully.

Belle seemed to shake herself a little. “Emma! Hi!” She reached across to give her a one-armed hug, the best she could do with the books still cradled against her chest with her other hand. 

“Are you kidding? I’m in love with those books! I have the last line from Good Form tattooed on my-” She trailed off abruptly, cheeks flushing red. “Sorry,” she said, turning again to August. “You must get that all the time.”

“Not as often as I’d like,” he said with a flash of teeth.  “Always nice to meet a fan. It was Belle, wasn’t it?” Emma saw the flash of recognition cross his face, as he matched the name with the story. “You’re a friend of Ruby’s, right?”

“Ruby? Ruby Lucas? Uh, yeah. We dated. Sort of. You know her?”

“We go back a ways. Do you like gin, Belle?” he asked, coaxing her closer to the bar. “I heard they’ve got some here that tastes like Earl Grey…”

It took Emma a moment to realize she’d been abandoned. Alone. With Killian Jones. Exactly as August, that slimy son of a bitch, had intended.

To his credit, Killian looked similarly startled, trying and failing to cover it with a casual scratch behind his ear. It was just a small thing, but it killed her.

“Sooo…” he began, never one to leave a silence unfilled, “Been a while…”

5 weeks, not that she was counting.

“Not that I blame you for avoiding me, mind...” he added.

“I wasn’t-” Her first instinct was denial, but she swallowed it back down. He knew her better than that. “Yeah, okay, I was, a bit. Sorry. I just needed…”

“Space,” Killian finished for her.

“Yeah. Space.” 

The smile they shared was fragile. Precious. She wanted to tell him she’d meant to call. That she’d had to fight off tears the whole time she’d read through his latest column. She wanted to tell him what it had meant to her.

Instead, she just said the first stupid thing to pop into her head. 

“Sorry,  I think August just stole your date.”

“Date?” Killian looked back to where Belle and August had disappeared, and it dawned on him. “Belle?” His laugh was incredulous, if Emma was any judge.  “Err… no. We just kind of met in the line.” 

“To Zadie Smith, right?”

“Aye.” He held up the autographed copy of her latest, before tucking it back under his arm. “Elsa’s a big fan. Her birthday’s coming up, so-”

She felt a prickle of attraction and hated herself for it. Just because he was a good brother-in-law, it didn’t mean she had to let her guard down again. Ted Bundy had probably been a great brother-in-law too.

“She’s coming home soon?” Even as strained as things had been, he’d been unable to keep the implosion of his home life entirely to himself.

“Next week. Let the boys settle back into things before school goes back.”

“And things with her and Liam are…?” She let her words trail off, not wanting to overstep.

“They’re… I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re talking now, at least. These long, overwrought transatlantic Skype conversations that I pretend very hard not to overhear.  It’s a start, I suppose.”

Emma shrugged in agreement. As thoughtful responses went, it fell short of the mark. But what did she know about fixing a broken marriage? She’d had one functional adult relationship in her entire life, and she hadn’t even made it through the entire proposal before she’d cut and run.

“So you’re working here?” he asked suddenly.

“Huh?” She looked down, confused, only to realize she was still wearing her baby blue STAFF sweater. “Oh, this? No, this is stolen. Or borrowed? You know what? I’m not really sure on the specifics.”

“Oh..kay?” Amusement was definitely winning out over his confusion.

Emma shrugged. “August said he’d sneak me into the Green Room. This is part of my cunning disguise. Pretty convincing, huh?”

“You know they check lanyards at the door, right?”

She didn’t. Fucking August.

“There is, of course, another way in…” He tried for his usual irrepressible swagger, and it rang a bit hollow to Emma’s ears. But he was trying. 

“Oh, is there?” she asked , crossing her arms sullenly over her chest.

He nodded, eyes growing brighter as they fell into a more familiar rhythm. “A secret way. Only known to the chosen few…”

Emma shot him a flat look.

With a grin and a flourish, he pulled a lanyard from his pocket, and held it out for her inspection.

It was identical to his in every way, right down to the Saorsa logo stamped on the back.

“Our photographer never made it, so I had a spare. What do you say, Swan? Want to ditch that awful jumper and join the big leagues?”

Emma cocked her head, considering this proposal. ”Would I actually have to take photographs?”

“If you like. But you’d definitely have to hold the camera. Authenticity and all that.” 

“And we’d breathe the same air as actual famous authors?” She was kidding, but only a little.

“Breathe the same air, eat the same Chocolate Digestives. We could even talk to a few, if you like.” He shrugged. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

Somehow, that trumped her original plan of playing the wallflower while August caught up with his cadre of fellow fantasy authors.

She didn’t say anything, but Killian must’ve already intuited her answer, because he gently pulled the lanyard from her grasp, and slipped it over her head with a smirk. 

“Congratulations, Dr Swan. You’re now a proud member of the fourth estate.” He held out a hand. “Shall we?”

Emma looked down at the proffered hand and hesitated. 

It was just a hand, and it wasn’t. Because here was the truth: Emma had started to trust Killian Jones. Started to lean on him. Confide in him.  And even now, after he’d kicked the metaphorical chair out from under her and shown he was capable of being a complete ass when the mood struck, she still wanted to. 

It was a hand, but it was also a second chance. 

And maybe it made her weak, but Emma reached out and took it.

***

I can’t believe I met a Pulitzer Prize winner! ES

I can. You only made me take twenty pictures of the two of you together. KJ

Funny. ES

Not a hardship, I can assure you. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. It was good to see you, even if only for a wee bit. KJ

Huh. Sincerity. Not sure what to do with that. ES

I’m trying a new thing, where I occasionally let the people in my life know that I actually appreciate their company. KJ

And how’s that working out for you? ES

Will is now convinced I harbour a dreadful crush on him, and Liam asked me if I had a concussion. Soo… I’d call it a work in progress ;-) KJ

Good to see you too. ES

***

August’s Q & A went better than expected, if you didn’t count the guy at the front whose question was more of a diatribe, really, about all the things he would’ve done differently.

There was always one.

But on the whole, the genuine fans outnumbered the assholes, and it took a good two hours to finally extricate August from his adoring masses, after the fact.

He was already flushed, drunk on ego and free booze when he finally emerged from behind a tent flap, and pulled Emma into a lazy hug. 

“Where to next, oh tour guide extraordinaire?” he asked with hot gin breath.

Emma grimaced, and held him at arm’s length. “There’s no next. You have a train to catch, remember?”

“Last train for London isn’t for another three hours,” August shrugged. “Still time for a last bit of revelry. Didn’t you promise you’d actually take me to a Fringe show?”

She had, but she’d also counted on August being distracted by his own brilliance long enough for her to welch out of that particular contract. The last thing she felt like doing was wading back into the madness of the Old Town.

“It’s kind of last minute…”

But August already had his phone out, scrolling through the app and Emma knew a lost cause when she saw one.

He looked up suddenly, eyes lit with a tantalizing prospect. “How far’s the Tron?” 

***

During the semester, The Tron was a studenty kind of hang out. Plenty of drink specials, and always a free table downstairs. She usually avoided the place, none too eager to bump into her students during their messy nights out. Least of all during hers.

During the Festival, however, it was a very different beast.

Gone were the baby faced clientele, and reasonable prices. It was standing room only, and foreign accents were more common than not. In this crowd, she might’ve been just another festival-goer, at a loose end between shows.

Even with having the push through the late afternoon crowds on the Mound, they still made it with ten minutes to spare before August’s chosen comedian started his set downstairs. She sent him down to save them some seats, and after a lot of pushing, shoving and gratuitous cleavage displays, managed to attract the attention of the nearest bartender.

“Alright, love?” he asked, with little better than a leer.

She ordered a pint for herself, and a tap water for August.

“That’s £10.”

Emma nearly swallowed her tongue. “For a pint? That’s extortion!”

The bartender shrugged, snatching the bill from her hand. “That’s August.”

She turned around, drinks in hand and the crowd surged around her, gunning for her vacated space by the bar. Some of her lager slopped onto the shoes of the guy in front of her, and she was halfway through her apology before she took a look at his face, and froze.

Graham.

Her Graham. Standing in The Tron. And decidedly not somewhere in Northern Ireland, studying the possible ramifications of Brexit on the Irish Border. Contrary to the text he’d sent her two hours ago.

“Emma, hey!” the words were friendly, but there was no disguising the tension in his jaw.

He was not pleased to see her. 

And when Emma looked behind him, and saw the dark haired young woman whose hand was clutched tightly in his, she realized why. It wasn’t just the white knuckled hold they had on each other, so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crush. 

It was the matching silver wedding bands.

Mother. Fucker.

Emma barely had time to process before she was tipping her overpriced pint down his shirt. All £10 of it.

The crowd of people around them suddenly went deathly quiet, so quiet Emma could hear the rush of her own blood inside her ears. She saw at least one person raise a camera phone.

Graham, himself said nothing. Even as his companion, his wife, stared between the two of them, dumbfounded. 

“Sorry,” Emma said, with the least amount of sincerity she could muster. “Really crowded in here, huh?”

The crowd parted for her as she left. Someone even slow clapped. It was all she could do to keep her face level until she was outside on the Mile, already dialing August’s number.

***

August never did end up catching his train that night. Instead they went back to Emma’s flat, and tore through Emma’s entire cache of American candy while bingeing episodes of Bake Off. 

It was only around 3am that she finally let him lead her into her bedroom, tucking her in like she was still a kid. Like nothing had changed in the last twenty years.

“You don’t need to say it,” she said, as he settled on top of the covers beside her, both of them staring at the ceiling.

“Say what?” he asked, leaning over to turn off her lamp.

“That my taste in men sucks.”

August snorted, settling back down beside her. “Well, you said it.”

“You’re right,” Emma admitted to the dark. “And you were right about Walsh. I didn’t love him. I just kind of… got used to him. And it’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

She turned over then, so she could see the vague outline of his face in the near darkness. “Have you told Jefferson how you feel, yet?”

They’d never discussed it. Not explicitly. But from the moment August had introduced his editor into their little group, Emma had known. And it didn’t seem to matter that Jefferson was a widower. Or a single father. There was something there, something between them as they traded insults and bickered over line edits. Something more than colleagues, or even friends. Something rare.

The silence was telling, as August regrouped.

“I wrote him a letter, once,” he confessed. “I was going to submit it with my finished manuscript. Right on the last page. But I ripped it up before I could give it to him.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to snort. “We never stood a chance, did we?”

“Some kids get trophies. Foster kids get abandonment issues.” It was a recitation. A line she’d heard before. 

They knew the truth of it better than anyone.

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #cs fic

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU 

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Hope you packed your crash helmets. This is a bumpy ride. Eternal thanks to @fraddit for holding my hand as I put this together. Maybe it’s not ready yet, but it’s spent enough time living rent-free in my head.

***

Killian

August W. Booth. Killian would never admit it, but he knew the name, even before Emma Swan had tumbled into his life. He’d remembered seeing it grace the spine of a book on the shelf of his old flat, back in London. He’d remembered asking Milah about it, and he remembered her non-committal response.

“It’s alright,” she’d said, flopping down onto the bed beside him. “If you’re into Americans who read too much Kafka travelling the world to ‘find themselves’.” She’d even done the air quotes, and he’d smiled at her honesty.

And in the months after she was gone, and he was left with nothing but her meagre possessions, he’d picked it up and read it cover to cover, in an effort to be closer to her.

But it really was just a book.

Killian didn’t want to ‘find himself’ on a Thai beach. Or follow in the footsteps of obscure European authors. Or even consume a questionable amount of hallucinogens. He had just wanted to wake up in a world where Milah still slept soundly beside him.

He’d donated the book to a charity shop on Camden High Street, along with most of Milah’s clothes.

He’d never imagined he’d meet the author. Or that he’d kind of hate him.

How to describe that first moment with August W. Booth? At first, Emma had been beside him, her hand held tight to his sleeve as they waded into the party throng. And then, with something that sounded like a choked sob, she was gone.

It was only when the crowd parted that he saw the spectacle for himself. Emma Swan, laughing. Damn near hysterical laughing, having launched herself at this bearded bloke in cable knit jumper. He’d barely caught her, but he had, even if he’d knocked over his beer in the process.

“Emma Swan, as I live and breathe!” The man, August, had declared, lifting her off her feet. “Have you gained weight?”

She smacked him on the shoulder, but her smile was still beatific, even as he set her back down. Killian had never seen that smile. Not once.

“Lost it, actually. Didn’t you hear? I run now. Like, habitually.”

“Now I come to think of it, Ruby did say something about that. But I assumed she was joking.”

Another smack. Another round of smiles as they talked over each other, trying to make up for lost time.

Killian was not a wallflower by nature, but something about the ready intimacy of their chatter kept him on the periphery, hovering awkwardly by a potted palm he highly suspected to be fake. He was just reaching out his hand to check when he felt a tug on his prosthetic.

She was dressed like Hilary Clinton, her blonde wig drunkenly askew. “Why’s your hand made of plastic?” she asked with all the tact of someone six vodka cranberries deep. “It is real? That’s sooo weird. Did you have some, like, terrible accident?”

Her accent was American, but much more the bubbly Southern Californian version than the one he was used to. He didn’t find it endearing.

“Hilary!” he greeted her with a forced smile, snatching his prosthetic back from her grasp. “Long time no see. How’s Bill? Still a complete cad?”

Her face was a picture of confusion. “My name is Hadley?” She looked down at her pantsuit, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “This is just a costume,” she explained slowly. “You know, for the party?”

“You don’t say! My apologies, Hadley. I mistook you for a woman of substance.”

It was not the most gentlemanly brushoff, but it did the trick.

Hadley squinted up at him for a few long moments, before tipping the rest of her drink down his front. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

He was, and he did. And thanks to her dramatics, the rest of the room were fast becoming aware of the fact too, even as her (seventh?) vodka cranberry seeped miserably into his shirt. He looked up just in time to catch Emma’s raised eyebrows as she approached, August following in her wake.

“Uh, do I want to know what you said to Hilary to piss her off?” she asked.

“Nothing she hadn’t already heard on the campaign trail,” Killian muttered, fanning his shirt away from where it was sticking fast to his chest. “I don’t know what it is about this party, Swan, but it doesn’t much approve of our outfits.”

Emma opened her mouth to retort, when a hand suddenly appeared in front of Killian’s face, attached to a weaselly-looking novelist.

“August Booth. You must be the Graham Humbert I’ve heard so much about?”

And he thought having a drink thrown over him would be the most aggrieving event of the evening.

“Killian Jones,” he corrected, delivering a slightly firmer handshake than necessary. “And I’m leaving.”

***

I feel like that could’ve gone better. ES

Are you okay? ES

Jones? ES

I’ve had worse things thrown at me than a girly cocktail, Swan. I dare say I’ll survive. KJ

Probably. But that’s not what I meant. ES

You should probably get back to your surprise visitor. He came a long way to see you. KJ

August is big boy. He can handle himself for a few minutes. Are you at home?  ES

No. KJ

So you’re walking around at large with a huge purple stain down your shirt? ES

Apparently so. KJ

That’s not weird at all. ES

How fortuitous then, that I’m not your problem. KJ

Wow. Okay. I guess you’re not. Fuck you very much. ES

***

It was a foolish idea. He had reminders set on his phone that pinged at regular intervals to remind him of exactly how foolish an idea it was. And yet, there he was anyway. Half a bottle of Captain Morgan later, standing outside Tink’s building in Newington, leaning on the buzzer.

The intercom chirruped into life. “If you don’t have a pizza, I don’t know you.”

He grinned, and leaned close to the speaker. “Margherita Cheese, extra olives.”

There was a pregnant pause. And then the front door buzzed open.

It wasn’t terribly late, by their usual standards. Barely past sunset, now they weren’t long past the solstice. And yet when Tink opened the door she was definitely wearing pyjamas. The kind one actually slept in, rather than entertained in.

Not that she seemed to care either way, tearing the pizza box from his hands with barely more than a nod in his direction. He followed her in anyway, and sat in her kitchen as she devoured half of it before coming up for air.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“My flatmate has us all on the Keto diet,” she shrugged by way of explanation. “It’s been hell. You know how many Greggs franchises I have to walk past on my way to work? It was only a matter of time until I cracked. But I’m glad it was you,” she crooned to the last of her pizza. “You were worth the wait.”

“I can’t decide if this is pathetic or adorable,” Killian mused.

“Definitely pathetic,” Tink declared, closing the box at last. “But you’re one to talk. You look rough as guts. And what did you get all over your shirt?”

He knew he should’ve stopped home to change first.

“Vodka cranberry, I believe.”

“Ooh,” she said, folding her hands under her chin. “The plot thickens. A deliberate attack?”

“It... may have been.”

She snorted. “You always know how to charm a lady, Jones. Until you don’t.”

“You never seemed to mind,” he reminded her, with a sly smile in her direction.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, before hooking a thumb in her direction. “Pathetic, remember?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said silky, letting his hand come to rest on hers. “In fact, I seem to recall a rather impressive list of talents…”

Tink slid her hand out from under his, to slap herself in the forehead. “So that’s what you’re doing here! It all makes sense now. You’ve had a shit night, and now you thought you’d show up, and what? I’d take you into my bedroom and help you forget all about it?”

“No, I just-”

“Just thought I was your standby girl. And I get it. I really do. Lord knows, I played the part enough times. But, honestly, Killian, wouldn’t you rather be with someone you’re actually crazy about? Like, oh, I don’t know...” She tapped her chin meaningfully, “...Emma?”

Something inside of him constricted at the sound of her name on Tink’s lips, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t want to think about her, or any of it. To hell with them.  

“Who’s Emma?” he replied, leaning in again. “All I see is you.”

He saw the slap coming, but his reactions weren’t what they were.

“Hey, you know we’re friends, right?” she said, her words a direct contradiction to the stinging of his cheek.  “I know we made a mess of things, but I thought we could still talk to each other. What’s going on? Because you’re not here because you find me completely irresistible.”

“Don’t I, love?”

It was a last ditch effort, but she wasn’t buying it.

“No, you don’t.” She sounded a little sad when she said it. “So start talking, or your drunken arse is getting an Uber. And you can start with what happened with Emma.”

“Nothing happened with Emma,” Killian muttered, looking around her kitchen for a possible source of alcohol. Any alcohol. So consumed was he by the search he didn’t catch Tink spiriting his phone from his pocket until she was already back in her chair again, scouring through his latest messages.

He really should’ve changed his passcode months ago.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I stand corrected,” she said, sliding it back across the table towards him with a roll of her eyes. “Nothing happened at all.”

Anger flaring, he snatched it back. “That’s really none of your business, love.”

“It is when you’re sitting in my kitchen, smelling like a distillery, and looking to use my body to distract you from your problems.”

God, he really was an arsehole. No wonder everyone he knew despised him. At last his eyes alighted on a stoppered bottle of brown liquid tucked away on top of the fridge. He stood up to retrieve it, and removed the stopper with his teeth.

He ducked down to take a whiff. Brandy. Perfect.

He found a pair of relatively clean glasses in the dish rack, and poured a generous measure into each.

“Peace offering?” he asked, slinging one of them in Tink’s direction.

Her glower didn’t abate any, but she accepted the glass anyway, wincing as her first sip hit her tongue.

“Needs water,” she said, handing it back with a cough.

Killian dutifully filled it up from the tap, and returned to his old place at the table. Just his performing this small act seemed to soften her somewhat, because the anger faded from her eyes.

“Look, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m trying a new thing. It’s called: ‘I only sleep with guys who are actually into me.’ And you know what? It’s going pretty good. I don’t wake up feeling like shit all the time.”

There was a novel concept.

“I’ve been an arsehole,” Killian summed up.

“Sometimes,” Tink agreed, with a comforting pat to his shoulder. “But I knew what your deal was. You get into bed with a guy with a missing hand and another girl’s name tattooed on his arm, you don’t really expect it’ll work out long-term.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Aye, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did,” she said, with an unapologetic grin. “But it’s okay. We were both just biding our time. Me until I grew some self-esteem, and you until your heart healed over a little.”

He wondered if it had. The wounds had been there so long, cut so deep, he rarely pressed them anymore. Rarely tested the strength of the scar tissue that had grown in their place.

“Well then,” he said, raising his glass. “To your self-esteem.”

Their glasses clinked, and he took his first sip. The brandy was thick across his tongue, but warming. A little burst of liquid courage to ask the question he’d been turning over and over in his mind since he’d glanced into Emma’s eyes on that settee, and felt things start to shift.

“You ever feel like there’s some things you just can’t get away from, no matter how hard you try?” he asked.

“My parents named me Tinker Bell. What do you think?” she replied, deadpan.

“Fair point,” he conceded, suddenly wishing he’d never opened his fool bloody mouth.

Unfortunately, Tink was not a mind reader and she didn’t let it go. “Are you talking about Milah?”

It had been so long since anyone had said her name aloud, he couldn’t entirely stop himself from flinching.

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Not entirely. I just… I’m not sure there’s ever really any overcoming the fundamental truths of our past.”

“Fundamental truths?” she asked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like, for example,” he began, wetting his lips with another syrupy slug of Brandy. “Everything my brother has ever done in his life has been to distance himself from our father. He’s got the upstanding, family man bit down. He’s a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie. But when push comes to shove, they still made the exact same mistakes.”

She cocked her head to the side, considering this. “I mean, there’s a genetic component to addiction. And idiocy, arguably. But I don’t believe in that ‘sins of the father’ bullshit. You are who you make yourself into. I’m not saying it’s easy to break the pattern, but it’s doable.”

Killian wanted to believe that. But he wasn’t so sure he did.

“I couldn’t,” he pointed out. “When I lost Milah, I-” The rum in his stomach roiled, and he wondered if he was going to throw up. He wondered how long it would take for Tink to throw him out after. But after a moment, the feeling passed, and he realised she was still waiting for him to finish his thought. “I… I was no different,” he finished, feeling foolish.

“So you lost someone who mattered to you, and you handled it badly?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make you your Dad. It makes you a person with a heartbeat.”

Killian stretched his prosthetic out on the table in front of him, considering the shiny piece of hardware. His most expensive souvenir from the shortest trip he’d ever taken.

“It’s not a liability, you know,” Tink said gently, nudging his prosthesis with her glass. “The hand. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. And it wasn’t. Drunken Hilary’s ill-timed comments had certainly hit their mark, but it wasn’t just the hand. It was what it represented. The very permanent reminder that he was no longer entirely whole.

Most days, he was fine with that. It was much the same as his tattoo. He liked having that proof. However tenuous. However painful. It was a tether to a time he’d been truly happy, and it was a comfort to him, to know he hadn’t imagined it.

Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he’d held on too long.

Tink had said so herself, they’d never stood a chance. That hadn’t bothered him so much before, because he hadn’t really been looking for one. At least, not with Tink.

“I think I fucked up with Emma,” he blurted out.

“Oh, you think?” Tink sneered, downing the last of her glass.

“I… definitely fucked up with Emma,” he agreed, tipping his head back to finish his own drink. It burned, and he let it. He deserved it.

This time it was Tink who reached for the bottle, pouring them another measure each. She didn’t top this one off with water

“To bitchy texts,” she declared, holding her glass aloft. “Ruining everything.”

Killian drank to that.

“So, are we past the denial portion of the evening? You like her, right?” Tink had that twinkle in her eye again. The same one she’d had when she realised the stain on his shirt hadn’t been an accident. Dirt. That was all she wanted.

“I… sometimes.”

Tink rolled her eyes. “Way to commit”

“She’s attractive,” Killian shrugged. “And I find myself... attracted.”

Tink blew a raspberry. “Oh, c’mon. I read your column. You are not subtle. You might as well start drawing ‘KJ 4 ES’ hearts all over your homework.”

“They aren’t that bad,” Killian scoffed.

“Really? Have you read the comment section lately? People ship it!”

“People are little old ladies with too much time to spend on Facebook between soap operas,” Killian responded blithely.  “I’m not overly concerned with their opinions.”

“How about mine? I saw you two sing an Elton John medley together, remember? That wasn’t attraction. That was fireworks.”

“It was stage theatrics,” he corrected. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She’s not the forgiving type. I’m not getting back in her good graces.”

“So why screw everything up in the first place? Jealousy?”

Yes.

Killian sighed. “A friend of hers is in town.”

“Like a special friend?”

“Like an old friend. Her oldest. She’s different with him. Happier. I’ve never seen her smile so much. I didn’t even know she could.”

“And you wish that was you? Making her happy?”

Yes.

Killian snorted. “She doesn’t want me.”

“How do you know? Did you ask her?”

As if that was something he could casually slip in a conversation somewhere. ‘Here’s your pint.. Oh, by the way, I quite fancy you and I was wondering if you fancy me back?’

“I think you’re forgetting she has already has a suitor.”

“Who? That Grant guy? They’ve been on what? Two dates? Two dates is not a relationship. Even I’ve spent more time with her than that.”

“Her friend certainly seemed to know all about him..” Killian swallowed back the bile in his throat at the thought.

Tink looked skeptical. “I doubt there’s much to know.”

“And I’ll remind you that this is all for naught, since we’ve established that I made a complete tit of myself, and she’s never speaking to me again.”

They both went silent at the thought. Tink refreshed their drinks.

“Well, then,” she said, offering up her glass for another impromptu toast. “Here’s to learning how to grovel.”

***

I’m sorry. I’m a complete arse. KJ

Yep. ES

***

Killian awoke in a strange room, his mouth dry and his virtue intact. It took him a moment of watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of morning light above his head to figure out exactly where he was.

Tink’s flat. It looked different by day. Shabbier. More lived in. He’d ended up on the sofa somehow, alone, twisted up in a crochet blanket into a strange configuration that would give him hell later. He was still wearing all of his clothes. Even the shirt with the cranberry stain down the front.

He could hear a radio somewhere nearby, giving a bleak update on the state of traffic on the City Bypass. Pipes shuddered, and soft feminine whispers punctuated the spaces between. The smell of burnt coffee grounds wafting up from the cafe downstairs, as the city woke to a new day.

He lay his head back down, and scrubbed at his face with his hand.

How many drinks had it been, all told? Eighty? Too many, he admitted to himself, as he surfed an accompanying wave of nausea.  It was time to find a new crutch. He wasn’t a student anymore.

“Hey, you’re up.” Tink’s voice was fuel to his headache, but her tone was friendly. He sat up to see her standing in the doorway, holding a giant steaming mug in her hands. The underlying tension of their usual morning after routine was gone. She looked comfortable, in a way he’d rarely seen.

“That for me?” he asked, hopefully.

“It is. Thought it might help with the, ah, sore head.”

It did. From the very first sip, Killian felt the fog in his head clearing, and life returning to his limbs. “Thanks, love.”

She nodded, and stepped back. “I was going to let you sleep, but uh, well… your sister-in-law is here.”

Killian nearly dropped the mug. “Elsa’s here?”

“In the kitchen. She showed up about ten minutes ago. You want me to send her in?”

Elsa. In Tink’s kitchen. Like his life hadn’t been strange enough lately.

“What is she-?”

“She didn’t say. But she-” Tink hesitated. “She looks rough. Kind of upset, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. Elsa was the queen of poise. She rarely let her feelings show, least of all to practical strangers. Was it Liam? The boys? Dammit, where was his phone? Had something happened?

He was already on his feet when Elsa rounded the doorway. And even with the warning, it was still a shock to see her. She did, indeed, look rough. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her face noticeably puffy. She’d forgone the implacable facade she carried with her into the outside world.

“I’ll just… leave you two alone,” Tink said, backing out of the room.

He took a few steps towards Elsa, and then hesitated. “Is everyone-”

“Everyone’s fine. Alive. Healthy. I promise.” She tried for a reassuring smile, but it did nothing of the sort. “Robin told me you might be here. And I’m really sorry to intrude-”

“Elsa,” he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “You’re never intruding. What’s happened?”

She bit her lip, but a single tear still managed to escape, unbidden, trailing down her fair cheek. “You know, I was beginning to think he was cheating on me?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, like that might stem the tide.

Oh god.

“He’d never.” Coming to Liam’s defence was automatic at this point. A reflex.

“No,” she agreed. “He’ll lie, and he’ll steal,  and he’ll gamble, but he won’t cheat.” The sound might’ve been a laugh, if it wasn’t so bitter. So hard. “I know everything. About the money. Weaver. He called me at work, asked after the children. He knew their names. Where they go to school. He even knew the colour of Lachie’s scooter!”

Fear slid into his abdomen like a blade, sharp and cold. “He wouldn’t-”

“He won’t!” Elsa’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I paid him his money. I did everything he asked. Malcolm Weaver has no reason to come near any of us, ever again.”

It was a curious mixture of relief and anxiety, all muddled together, making Killian’s head swim. And somewhere in the mix, guilt. A sense of culpability. “I should’ve told-”

“No,” she said, eyes shining with renewed anger. “My husband should’ve told me. He should’ve trusted me, like I thought I trusted him. And he never should’ve put you in the position of having to lie for him. Or lie to your family. And your eye-”

Her tears were flowing freely now, and Killian’s grip on her arms tightened. “He’s an idiot. And he’s too proud for his own good. But you know he never wanted to hurt you, or disappoint you. You or the boys.”

“I know,” Elsa hiccuped. “But he did. Not because he made a mistake-” She physically swatted the idea away. “We all do that. But because he couldn’t be honest with me. That’s not the marriage I thought I had.”

“Had?” The way she’s said it, it sounded so… final.

Elsa swiped a sleeve across her cheeks, mopping up her tears. “I love him, Killian. You know I love him. But I can’t look at him right now. Anna asked me to stay. I’ll take the boys to New York for the summer. I don’t need them getting caught up in all this.”

“But you are coming back?” The lump in Killian’s throat had nearly doubled. As much as he’d resented being the black sheep in a flock of prize Merinos, he couldn’t quite imagine a life now without them.

Elsa smiled a dim smile. “This is home. And you Jones Boys, you’re home too,” she said, gathering him into a fierce hug. “And you’re always going to be a part of this family, with or without Liam. You know that, don’t you?”

It was an oft-repeated phrase of hers. Always trying to include him. Always trying to set him at ease. But it had never really rung true, before. He’d never been wholly convinced. They were a family, and he was an interloper. A squatter. He’d come to terms with that.

It wasn’t until he found himself crushed under the weight of Elsa’s furious embrace that he finally let himself see it. It wasn’t just Elsa’s bird bones that had a hold on him. It was her affection for him. Her love. The well ran deep, the force more formidable than he would have imagined. A sister’s love.

“Aye,” he said, letting his chin rest atop her shoulder. “I know that.”

They separated a bit, and she smiled her first real smile. “Took you long enough.”

“I’m a Jones,” he shrugged wryly. “We’re not the smartest.”

“No,” Elsa agreed, sweeping his hair from his forehead like he’d watched her do for Lachie and Callum a thousand times. A protective, nurturing gesture. Automatic as breathing. “And what did you do to your shirt?”

***

I am your problem. That is, I wish to be your problem. KJ

I confess: I was an almighty dickhead the other night. And if you don’t forgive me for that, I would understand. KJ

I made you feel as if you weren’t important to me, but that isn’t true. We’re friends. Good friends, I hope. I was angry at so many people that night, but none of them were you. You just got caught in the crossfire, and I can only apologise for that. I would like to do so in person, if you’d permit me. KJ

You give good apology, Killian Jones. But I know how good you are with words. ES

Not good enough, apparently. KJ

You know you made me feel like an idiot, right? For thinking we were friends? ES

We are friends. I’m just a spectacularly bad one, sometimes. I could blame the drink, or the stress of Liam’s secret, or Hilary’s tactless comments about my hand, or August not having a clue who I was, or even how fucking raw I was after sitting on that settee with you. But the truth is, sometimes I’m not quite the man I want to be. KJ

Maybe you don’t want to be friends with someone like that. I wouldn’t blame you. But I also think you understand, perhaps better than anyone, why we push people away without really meaning to. KJ

A little fucked up. A little scared. KJ

I understand. ES

I mean, I’m still kind of pissed. ES

But I get it. ES

Pint? KJ

Busy. I’m babysitting a novelist, remember? They’re very high maintenance. ES

Bring him along. Don’t you think it’s about time he learned of the wonder that is Open Mic Night? They moved it to Friday this week. KJ

Oh no. That can only end in heartbreak. ES

Heartbreak Hotel ;-) KJ.

Maybe next time, Jones. ES

I look forward to it, Swan. KJ

***

Emma and her novelist never made an appearance at Open Mic Night, though Killian spent half the night watching the door anyway. Not the entire night, mind. Robin was being far too entertaining for that.

His bereaved, beloved Robin, who’d taken the stage and was attempting a version of Wild Thing complete with a series of hip gyrations which made Eddie Vedder’s relationship with his microphone stand seem chaste.

A courtship display if Killian had ever seen one. All directed at the brunette in the front row, who looked decidedly more like the university administrator she was than Killian remembered last time he’d seen her. As Wonder Woman. Out of costume, she was better recognised as Regina Mills, University Vice-Chancellor.

Apparently they were dating now. And things were going well.

He could only confess to a little jealousy. Robin, more than anyone he knew, deserved a little happiness. Though when things started to get hot and heavy after Robin’s encore, Killian was only too happy to make his excuses.

***

Returning home to the big empty house in Merchiston brought mixed feelings. Killian still preferred his bed to the medieval torture device which was Tink’s sofa, but there was something unnerving about the place with the boys gone. Without laughter, or chaos, or the 60% chance of treading on a stray Lego brick with your bare feet at any given moment.

He was almost disappointed when he made it down the hallway unscathed in the dark. Right up until the moment he switched on his bedroom light, and found a dark clad figure standing directly before him.

His scream was not particularly masculine. Not as he stumbled backwards, and not as he picked up the nearest object and threw it with all of his might at his would-be attacker.

The boot caught the figure upside the head, hard enough to have him swearing. By the second string of curses, Killian realised his mistake.

“Bloody hell, Liam. Do you have a death wish?” he asked, dropping the second boot and coming to his brother’s side. “I thought I was about to meet my fucking maker.”

“My. Mistake,” Liam ground out through gritted teeth, hands still clutched to his head where Killian had struck his blow. Liam didn’t have to ask who he’d mistaken him for. Even after Elsa’s intervention, the spectre of Weaver’s goons loomed large in their imaginations.

And that’s when he saw it, lying on the rug where it had fallen during their altercation. The Galaxy bar.

Liam’s eyes followed his gaze, crinkling slightly despite his pain. “Happy St Killian’s Day, little brother.”

***

-KJ has sent you a document file-

What’s this? ES

I’m sure even you can recognise a Word document when you see one, Swan. KJ

I mean, why am I getting it? You’ve never sent me a copy of your column before it’s published before. ES

I’m trying something new. It’s called ‘consideration for other people’s feelings’. KJ

Huh. Seems kind of out of character for you. ES

I probably deserved that. KJ

You definitely did. ES

This column touches on some… more sensitive topics. I’d feel more comfortable having your approval before I took it to Liam. Would you please indulge me? KJ

Fiiiine. ES

... ES

Um. Wow. ES

Too personal. Understood. Consider it vanquished. KJ

No! I mean, yeah, it’s personal. But it’s… real. I never really… It’s good, Killian. And if Liam doesn’t have a problem with it, then I don’t have a problem with it. ES

You’re positive? Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. KJ

Positive. ES

As you wish. KJ

#findemmaswanafriend #cs au #cs ff #cs ff au #the long lost return #and a boatload of angst

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

also on ff.net and ao3

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin and whoever else asks me.

A/N: Yep. It’s been forever. And to add insult to injury, this is only Part 1 of 2. But umm... yay content?

***

SOS. My boss is wearing a powdered wig, and a guy in US flag speedos and nothing else just spilled punch down my dress. ES

What's this? A damsel in distress? Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a certain bearded gentleman to swoop in. One with cocktail knowledge and combat experience. Where is dear Rambo tonight? KJ

Don't call him that. And he's in Belfast, doing research. You know, like academics are supposed to do? ES

Ah, yes. Research. I've heard of it. KJ

That's it? No daring rescue plan? We have a code T here. ES

Code T? KJ

T for Transparent. As in, my dress. From being soaked through with punch by that asshole. Am I painting a clear enough picture? ES

I assure you, the image is extremely vivid. You might've led with that. Where is this damnable affair taking place, again? KJ

***

Emma

It wasn't that Emma was ashamed of where she came from. Not exactly. Recent election results aside, she had to acknowledge she hadn't ended up teaching American History by accident. Even when her country frustrated her, you had to admit, it was never boring. It was just...

She'd never been a foreigner before. Not really. A week in Cabo. That time Mary Margaret had forced her to third-wheel on a couple's ski trip to the Laurentians. Because that wasn't awkward at all.

But if she'd thought her American-ness would be a novelty in Scotland, she'd been seriously deluding herself.

Between the onset of summer vacation, the Instagram-worthy architecture and the enduring appeal of Jamie Fraser, there had never been more Americans in Edinburgh than there were at that moment. The Outlander Effect, they were calling it.

And Emma couldn't exactly miss them. They were everywhere, and not just herding en masse down the Royal Mile. On the bus. Crowding into the Jinglin' Geordie on Open Mic Night. Talking group assignments in the Starbucks line. Hell, a lot of her own students came equipped with homegrown accents, her class allowing their studies to mesh seamlessly with the syllabus back home.

Most encounters were pretty jarring. Like listening to your own voice played back on a recording.

Do I really sound like that?

She hoped not.

Did it really take me that long to figure out it isn't pronounced Edin-burg?

No comment.

Do I really have trouble translating common anglicisms?

Only sometimes.

Usually when they came out of the mouth of someone like Will Scarlet, and she couldn't tell if he was using some highly localized Derbyshire dialect, or if he was just fucking with her.

Sure, Killian tried a little too hard to sound like some kind of dashing 17th-century buccaneer most of the time, but at least it was still recognizable as a form of English. With Will though, she could never really be sure.

Still, after nearly a year, she liked to think she had a handle on things. She could order a 'Laphroaig' without completely mangling it, and knew enough to keep an umbrella on her person at all times. And if and when her cravings for American snack foods struck, they were being plenty satisfied by her local Sainsbury's, who kept one shelf fully stocked with all of the Twinkies, Peanut Butter Cups, and Lucky Charms a girl could ever wish for.

So when her Head of Department was looking for volunteers for their annual Fourth of July barbecue, Emma had to admit she did try to get out of it.

It was her own fault, really. It was summer. She should've been sunning it up in the Algarve with the rest of her colleagues, day drinking, and returning her skin tone to a less deathly pallor. Instead, she was the sucker who'd been roped into teaching Summer School classes to a revolving door of international students, who were keen to let some of the school's reputation rub off on them, without the three or four year commitment. Every three weeks a new lot arrived, and Emma's life descended into Groundhog Day as she repeated her lectures anew, reliving the same debates and excuses on a constant loop.

So she only had herself to blame when the department head went looking for warm bodies, that hers was the only one still lingering in the corridors.

"Great!" her boss said, clapping her hands together. "Don't forget to wear something festive!"

Festive.

There was no way this wasn't going to be a disaster.

***

The damsel in distress line might've rankled her, but she had to hand it to the guy, he came through.

Fifteen minutes after she'd barricaded herself in the bathroom after The Fruit Punch Incident she was summoned curbside, arms still determinedly crossed over her chest, to where a black cab sat idling, an incorrigible Englishman leaning against it holding up a leather holdall.

"Does Elsa know you went through her closet?" she asked, eyeing the bag.

"Who do you think paid for the cab?" he grinned.

Emma really needed to send that woman a fruit basket or something. Did people still do that? Send fruit baskets? Elsa would know. She probably went to one of those fancy Swiss finishing schools, where you learned shit like that.

The bag even smelled expensive as Killian handed it over, his eyes dropping for the first time to properly take in her ruined outfit, and lingering.

"Don't even say it," she warned, as he fought to suppress a grin.

She was never wearing a white sundress again. Ever.

"If anyone could pull it off..." he began, but a warning finger cut him off.

The picture of innocence, he raised his hands and stepped away. Which was precisely the moment Emma realized they were not, in fact, alone.

"In a spot of bother, milady?" came the cheerful greeting from the figure still wedged into the backseat of the cab, waving at her.

Robin. Attractive single Dad Robin, with the Oxbridge accent, criminal mastermind father, and good sense to keep his eyes averted.

"What the hell?" Emma hissed under her breath, whacking Killian in the shoulder. "Are we charging admission for my humiliations now?"

"Easy, lass," he said, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "I was out with Robin when you texted. I was hardly going to leave him on his own, now was I? Not very good form."

She glanced back to where Robin sat, whistling to himself, then back to Killian. "Oh, so now you're the honorable one?"

"What's this?" he scoffed. "An attack on my character? And after I've orchestrated such a dashing rescue? A fair maiden in distress and I'm on the spot."

The indignation would've been a little easier to swallow if his grin hadn't been quite so… wolfish.

"Yeah, right," Emma said with a roll of her eyes. "Like this isn't making it into your column."

He didn't deny it. He didn't need to. Just offered her a clumsy wink, and motioned to the building before them.

"One good turn deserves another, don't you think?" he suggested, and Emma's stomach dropped. "How does one merit an invitation to an exclusive gathering of expatriates, exactly? Do they check passports at the door? Make you recite the Pledge of Allegiance?"

He held his prosthetic over his heart, and affixed a solemn expression.

"Wrong hand, asshole," she said, grabbing his wrist and tugging his hand back down by his side.

"Probably for the best," Killian shrugged. "I confess I don't actually know the words. Does the School of Rock version count?"

"You seriously want to go up there? You know they're celebrating their independence from the English, right?"

"I'm a journalist, Swan. An arbiter of truth. Would you really deny me the materials I need to make an honest living?"

"You're a hack," Emma grumbled, clutching the bag of clothes to her chest.

"Aye, that I am," Killian agreed, dropping his voice at least an octave. "But a rather dashing one, don't you think?"

So this is how Killian Jones got what he wanted. The ol' razzle dazzle.

It wasn't entirely ineffective. With a huff of annoyance, Emma walked over to lean by the window of the cab. "What do you say, Robin? Want to see my countrymen cut loose and fight about politics?"

He tilted his head, considering her offer. "Do you really put marshmallows in your sweet potatoes?"

"Different holiday. But yeah, we do."

"Alright then," he said, gathering up his belongings where they were strewn across the back seat. "I'll be there presently."

Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cab, she turned back to Killian, who was looking unbearably pleased with himself. Even more than usual.

"Lead the way, lass" he declared, with an exaggerated bow.

"It's a little too late to play at being the gentleman, don't you think?" Emma pointed out.

"Oh?" he asked, his gaze unnervingly direct. "And why is that, Swan?"

If he was trying for intimidation, then he really didn't know Emma well enough. Instead, she simply turned to lead the way back up the stairs to the front stoop, bag swinging by her side. "I'm just saying…" she replied in a sing-song voice. "A gentleman wouldn't have looked."

***

When Emma pictured a Fourth of July barbecue, she pictured hot dogs, hyperactive neighborhood kids with water pistols, and sunshine. The Edinburgh version was something very different.

For one thing, it was not a family affair. For another, she doubted you could even really call it a barbecue, when there was no grill in sight. And unfortunately, for Emma, the party was still in full swing when she returned after her costume change, all of her dreams for a quick getaway evaporating along with the last of the punch.

If anything, the numbers had swelled with a sea of Uncle Sams and Lady Liberties spilling out into the garden, wine glasses in hand. If Emma hadn't already realized the gross pay disparity between educators and administrators, the garden would've really sealed it.

You couldn't swing a Heriot Row townhouse on Emma's salary. Hell, you couldn't even swing a Heriot Row parking space on Emma's salary. Yet somehow, the university muckety-muck who'd been bullied into hosting this little soiree didn't seem to have that problem.

At least the booze was free.

Emma looked longingly over at the refreshments table, but gave it a wide berth. The last thing she needed to do was ruin her borrowed sweater. It was a little on the tight side, but she did appreciate its fuzzy warmth. Even as she wondered if Killian had purposefully picked out the preppiest sweater he could find, or if she was just cursed.

"Hey," came a call from her left. It was a guy in a Captain America outfit, with none of Chris Evan's dimensions. "Ivanka, right?"

Emma looked down at herself, wondering if that was the name of the designer. "I'm sorry?"

"You're dressed as Ivanka Trump, right? Nice."

He was gone before she could deny it, and she glanced back to the gilded mirror in the hallway in alarm. With her hair recently straightened, she had to admit to a passing resemblance. If you squinted.

Oh god.

She had to find the boys and get them out of here, before she was pilloried as a Republican infiltrator.

She scanned the crowd, but the only person in a leather jacket she saw was channeling Maverick from Top Gun. Frustrated, she headed out into the garden, where she spotted Robin, cornered amongst the shrubberies by a very determined looking woman in a Wonder Woman costume.

Was Wonder Woman even American, technically?

Whatever the debates on her true origin, Emma had to admit the woman pulled off the look, even if the cleavage spilling out from the neckline of the outfit was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. She was fully fixated on Robin, her fingers trailing up and down his arm, laughing at one of his anecdotes.

As she walked by she shot him a questioning look, in case he needed an assist, but he just gave a wink, and started in on a new story.

Hot Single Dad Robin still had it. And something told her he wouldn't be up for any plan that involved cutting out with her early.

Heaving a sigh, she liberated a Coors Light from an icebox and took another turn around the garden.

"Ivanka?" Another woman asked, her look practically accusatory.

"Elle Woods," Emma blurted out. The sweater was baby blue, not pink, but it was the best she could come up with on the fly.

Hurrying away from that interaction, she rounded a pillar and finally came upon her quarry, sitting alone on a bench beside a gurgling water feature.

"And here I thought you'd be the life of the party," Emma said, snagging the space beside him. She gestured towards where Robin was getting half his face mauled off by Wonder Woman. "Was every other member of the Justice League taken?"

She was rewarded with the ghost of a smile, but his gaze was still fixed ahead, not really seeing, as he rolled an unopened bottle of Budweiser between his fingers.

"You okay?" Emma asked, taking the bottle from his hand and removing the cap with a well-placed tap against the side of the bench.

"Where'd you learn that little trick?" he asked, ignoring her question as he accepted the open bottle.

"A bus shelter in Framingham, Massachusetts." It was more detail than he was expecting, and she nearly laughed at the sudden brightness in his eyes. "It was my first beer. You kind of remember stuff like that."

"You has your first beer in a bus shelter in Framingham Massachusetts?" He repeated it back, like there was something especially weird about that.

"Yeah. I was 14, and in between foster homes. Stole a six pack from the Stop and Shop after the clerk told me off for browsing the magazines. And then some old army vet at the bus shelter showed me how to take the cap off against the side of a trash can."

He furrowed his brows. "You're trying to get me to open up by revealing things about yourself. Which you never do."

"Maybe," Emma offered, taking a swig of her beer. "Is it working?"

He took a long sip on his own bottle, made a face, and then settled it back into his lap. "You mentioned a brush with the law, as a teenager. I'm assuming that wasn't for underage drinking at bus stops?"

Emma grimaced. "Not so much. Possession of stolen goods, with intent to sell. I got lucky. The watch I had on me was worth just shy of $500. They knocked it down to a misdemeanor and I got probation."

"You stole a watch?"

"No, my skeezy boyfriend stole a case of watches. I just happened to be wearing one when he called the cops to frame me while he took off to Canada with the rest."

"When he what?! Please tell me this wanker is dead in a ditch somewhere." Emma had to admit, she didn't mind his tone. Like he might go out and finish the job, if need be.

Emma shrugged, picking at the label on her bottle. "Probably. I never saw him again after that."

"So that explains it," Killian huffed.

"Explains what?" Emma asked, preparing to get defensive.

"Your Walsh fellow's appeal. I'm guessing he wasn't the larcenous type?"

Oh. Not even remotely.

"Yeah, he was the kind of guy who washed out his jars before he put them in the recycling. He was kind of the anti-Neal."

"That was his name? Neal?"

"Neal Cassidy," Emma sighed. "And yes, like the writer. He had it changed when he was 18 as a Fuck You to his Dad."

"Well, he sounds like a right tosser."

Emma snorted. "Yeah, pretty much."

"And not all that clever, if he thought losing you for a case of watches was an even trade."

That had Emma looking up, sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue. But instead of making fun, Killian's expression was deadly serious, eyes meeting hers directly. Like he actually meant it. Emma's gaze flicked back to the label on her beer, nearly entirely peeled away by this stage, and fought to keep her face level.

"You think so?" she asked, her words coming out less jokingly than she intended.

"I do."

It was the answer that had her looking back up again, a frown forming. "Killian, I-"

"You're worth at least two cases," he added. "Maybe three. I mean, what are we talking here? Cartier? Rolex?" His eyebrow was raised again in that familiar roguish way.

Emma let out a breath, and extinguished the tiny flame that burned somewhere inside her stomach. Friends, she reminded herself. They were friends.

"You're hilarious," Emma replied deadpan. "And if we're going to continue sharing, I really need something stronger than this," she said, tipping back her head and draining the last of her bottle.

"When I was looking for extra chairs earlier, I think I saw a wet bar in the study. Fancy a dram?" Killian asked, rising to his feet.

"Oh, so you're journalistic snooping does come in handy sometimes?"

"More than sometimes," he said with a grin that would fell a lesser beast. And suddenly Emma wasn't so sure the flame was truly out.

Later, she still couldn't recall whether he'd held out a hand to take her empty bottle, or to help her up. All she knew, was as they moved from the garden back to the party proper, she had Killian's hand in hers.

***

Reasons Not To Push Killian Jones Up Against The Nearest Wall And Have Your Way With Him:

1. Hello, work event. Have some goddamn professionalism.

2. You're wearing Elsa's clothes. Don't make this weird.

3. You like him, and never talking to him again would suck.

4. He would definitely allude to it in his column, and you would have to emigrate. Again.

5. Graham. Oh, fuck. Graham.

***

The upstairs study was everything you'd expect from an overpaid university administrator. Soft red leather furnishings. Framed certificates covering an entire wall. A solid oak desk that could, hypothetically, bear the weight of two people at once.

And, oh yeah, the promised wet bar.

Emma was not, nor had she ever been, a cheater. And even if she and Graham were still only in the "getting to know you" phase of tentative texts and PG-13 cocktail hours, she knew betraying that would still be a shitty thing to do.

So when Killian offered her the glass of whisky, she didn't do what she wanted to do, which was down the lot and drag him towards her by the collar. Instead, she sat on the red leather couch as far from him as possible, and held the glass in front of her like a shield.

"Reminds me of your jacket," he said with a smile, letting his hand glide against the upholstery. Emma's skin still tingled from where his hand had gripped hers, so unused to foreign contact.

She took a gulp of her drink, and let it burn down her esophagus in penance for her crimes. Only once she'd regained sufficient control of her hormones did she speak.

"So, are you going to tell me what's been up with you?

"Up with me?" Killian replied, his oh-so-innocent look oh-so-unconvincing. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," Emma said, rolling her eyes heavenward. "The sudden phone emergencies. The brooding. The black eye. You've been different lately. Kind of… subdued, for you."

In answer, Killian drained what was left of his glass, and turned to face her. "Perceptive, aren't you, Swan?" He didn't sound happy about the fact.

Emma shrugged, taking another sip. "You can't kid a kidder."

He considered that, finger tapping absently against the side of his glass. "Perhaps not. Very well then. The truth: The magazine is broke."

It wasn't what Emma had been expecting. What had she been expecting? A secret drug habit? Abusive new girlfriend? Fight Club?

"Broke?" she repeated.

"Utterly. But instead of accepting the inevitable, and bowing out gracefully, my brother, well-intentioned idiot that he is, decided to take what was left in the coffers and make a few wagers."

Emma's heart sank into her stomach. "He didn't."

"Oh, he did. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, apparently. Lost the lot. Bloody prat. Thought he'd come back a conquering hero. Instead he's having to dip into his own savings to keep the whole operation afloat until he can find a way to pay back his bookie."

That explained the black eye.

"And no one knows about this? Don't you have accountants or something?"

"There is a fellow, Tim, who's been covering for him. Let him take out the entire balance in the first place, didn't he? So now he feels equally culpable. So there's Liam. Tim. Me. And now you."

"Elsa doesn't know?"

"Not in so many words. She isn't bloody stupid though. He's been decidedly distracted on the homefront. Probably thinks he's having a mid-life crisis or an affair or something stupid. Would be easier to just tell her, but the problem is, he knows if she finds out about it she'll feel obligated to help."

"Well, that would be a good thing, right? No more, uhhh…" Emma waved a hand over her eye.

"Well, when Elsa's parents died, they left her a good deal of money. Most of it went towards the house, and setting up her sister in New York, but there's enough left to get Weaver off his back. Problem is, my brother's pride would never let him accept it. And then there's the matter of Elsa's aunt."

"Elsa's aunt?"

"She owns the magazine. And let's just say, she's not quite as err… understanding as Elsa can be. If she gets word of it, there'll be criminal charges."

"Fuck."

"Fuck,' he agreed, leaning forward in his chair to pour himself another whisky.

"And you've just been carrying this all around on your shoulders for what? Months?"

"But what magnificent shoulders, wouldn't you say, Swan?" The grin was almost leering, but not in a good way. More in a defense mechanism kind of way.

"Don't do that," Emma chided, leaning over to smooth the wrinkle above his brows with her fingers. "Just be you."

"And how is that?" He asked, with a look of such genuine curiosity that her hand paused somewhere in the region of his jaw.

"Same as me," Emma shrugged. "A little fucked up. A little scared."

She leaned forward then, and placed a kiss on that same spot above his brow.

Maybe it wasn't where she'd wanted to kiss him five minutes ago, but it felt right. She heard him inhale sharply underneath her, but she didn't immediately break contact. Not until his face relaxed, and his arms came up to wrap around her waist.

She let her head fall onto his shoulder, and his on hers, breathing each other in. Comfortable fucking silence.

Only when her phone started chirping in her pocket did she pull away at last, steadying herself on his shoulders. "You're going to be okay, Killian Jones. You and your fucked up family."

The grin was wry, but it was real.

"You going to get that?" he asked, ducking his chin down to where they were practically intertwined. Probably best not to add vibration to the mix.

She fished the phone out of her pocket, and checked the caller ID.

August.

He never called. He sent ten page letters typed up on his pretentious vintage typewriter, but he never called.

With a look of apology, she peeled herself off of Killian's lap, and hit accept.

"August? Is someone dead?"

"Em! Where are you?" Wherever he was, he sounded cheerful. And just a little bit drunk. Well, it was the Fourth of July.

"Where am I? I'm in Scotland, where I'm supposed to be. How much have you had to drink?"

"Nooo," he corrected, words slurring a little. "I mean, where right now? Someone in your department told me you were at this party. But no one remembers seeing you. Are you here?"

Emma's stomach lurched. "Party? You mean, in Edinburgh?"

"Of course, in Edinburgh! The party I'm at, it's at… hang on," his words muffled as he conferred with nearby partygoers, "17 Heriot Row?"

Oh. Fucking. Fuck. Fucking August and his fucking surprises.

"I'll be five minutes. Stay right where you are."

Feeling the color drain from her face, she ended the call, and tucked her phone back into the pocket of her borrowed jeans. "We need to get downstairs. I need to-" She looked around for a mirror, but there were none in the vicinity. Of course.

"Lass?" He had her by the elbow, holding her still. "What has you all a-flutter?"

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. "You remember I mentioned my friend August?"

"Knee still creaks when it rains, August?" The boy did have superior recall. "Novelist August?"

"Yeah. Anyway, he's downstairs."

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #look who's back from outer space? #cs au ff

[blessed-but-distressed]

Just wrote a scene which will make approximately 200 weirdos on the internet very happy.

#findemmaswanafriend

[blessed-but-distressed]

Because it’s been forever, but I swear I’m still working on it, a tidbit from the next chapter of #FindEmmaSwanAFriend:

SOS. My boss is wearing a powdered wig, and a guy in US flag speedos and nothing else just spilled punch down my dress. ES

What’s this? A damsel in distress? Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a certain bearded gentleman to swoop in. One with cocktail knowledge and combat experience. Where is dear Rambo tonight? KJ

Don’t call him that. And he’s in Belfast, doing research. You know, like academics are supposed to do. ES

Ah, yes. Research. I’ve heard of it. KJ

That’s it? No daring rescue plan? We have a code T here. ES

Code T? KJ

T for Transparent. As in, my dress. From being soaked through with punch by that asshole. Am I painting a clear enough picture? ES

I assure you, the image is extremely vivid. You might’ve led with that. Where is this damnable affair taking place, again? KJ

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #cs ff au #cs au sneak peek