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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

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Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming (3/35)

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Rating: Mature. Word Count: 9.6K of Killian Jones background and why he’s so jaded. AN: Will and Robin ragging on Killian for every single one of his life choices and how clearly into Emma Swan he already is might be my absolute favorite thing. So here’s more of that. Also Cora. And Regina. And journalism families. And Ariel. And painfully adorable kids! As always I can’t thank you guys for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic. || Also on Ao3 and FF.net and tagged up on Tumblr || Tag List: @jamif ; @alicerubyfloyd ; @courtneyshortney82 ; @jennjenn615 ; @artistic-writer ; @kmomof4 ; @onceuponaprincessworld ; @nikkiemms ; @resident-of-storybrooke ; @whumped-natascha-remi-ronin ; @coliferoncer ; @strangestarlightdetective (Let me know if you want to be tagged or not tagged or just, like, have some feelings.)

He had an office.

And a couch in his office.

He’d never had a couch in an office. He’d never really had an office. And now he had both. He also hadn’t heard a single word from Emma Swan in the last week.

And it might have been driving Killian insane. Slowly, but surely. It might have also been driving his friends insane. He had an office and no reason to use it.

“Some reporter you are,” Will said, not the first time he'd pointed that out. He’d flopped onto the couch without a single word ten minutes before, draping his legs over the side and dropping half a dozen cameras on the floor. “How did you not actually get her number?” Killian didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He had an answer, just not one he wanted to share with Will Scarlet in an office building that seemed to be some kind of living, breathing entity.

“Is it always this loud in here?” Killian asked instead, leaning back against the absurdly expensive office chair that had come with the absurdly fancy office.

Regina was pulling out every conceivable stop – metaphorical or otherwise – to make this work. He probably would have been impressed if he wasn’t so frustrated that he was a piece of garbage reporter and Emma Swan hadn’t called him to set something up yet.

For the story.

Absolutely for the story.

“It’s an office,” Will reasoned. He still hadn’t sat up. “You worked in a daily for years in several major metropolitan cities. Why is this weird for you?” “It’s not.” “Ok, then why didn’t you ask for contact info? From any of them, but especially the one you’ve been mooning over for the last week?”

Killian scoffed, mostly so his face didn’t dissolve into exactly that. “Excuse me? What was that phrase you just used? Did we just teleport to 1947?” “Why that date?” “A spur of the moment decision.” Will hummed in agreement, shifting on the couch and flopping his head to his side, staring at Killian like they were sophomores in college and trying to figure out how to pay the rent that month. “I’m serious,” he continued.

“I know you are,” Killian sighed, sliding down the chair until his knees were bent in front of him and his shirt was going to get wrinkled, crumpled up against his back. He had research to do. He had a video game to learn and a lifestyle to understand and maybe a blonde to...stalk? No, that sounded too aggressive.

That’s why he’d given her the card and resolved to hope for the best.

Because Killian could pick out a cautious source when he saw it – Emma’s slightly skittish behavior like some kind of flashing neon sign that this wasn’t just going to be easy. Of course not. It was a good story – she was a good story – probably the best story he’d had in as long as he could remember, some kind of decidedly optimistic something that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about for the last week.

But she was nervous and she didn’t really want to talk and, truth be told, he was fairly positive she didn’t really want him there.

The story hadn’t been her idea. Or her team’s idea. It had been some quasi public relations advisor masquerading as an elementary school teacher who had, by some journalistic coincidence, managed to get Regina to listen to her.

And Killian didn’t have time for a story that wasn’t easy and simple and, well, maybe a little fluffy.

What a goddamn disaster.

He should have gotten contact info from the entire, stupid team.

And Emma.

Definitely Emma.

“If you think any harder you’re head is actually going to explode,” Will muttered, grinning at Killian. He’d kicked his shoes off at some point. God.

“Just make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” Killian hissed. He ran his hand through his hair, practically yanking on the ends in frustration and he was no closer to understanding how any of this video game stuff worked than he had been a week before or a year before or ever in his entire life.

He was a fucking awful reporter – with no knowledge of his subject matter.

“It’s not like you’re doing anything else,” Will reasoned. “And I don’t have anywhere to go for awhile. So, uh, yeah, Hook. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Also Locksley said he might show up.” “So you’re babysitting me is what you’re telling me?”

“I said no such thing. You a master of this game, yet? Locksley said…” “Just how many conversations with Robin are you having?” Killian asked and his leg was starting to cramp up, bent the wrong way under his desk. His phone dinged a few feet away from his hand and he nearly jumped towards the sound, ignoring whatever Will did with his face as he reached to grab the thing and, possibly, will a very specific person onto the other end.

It wasn’t even a phone call.

It was a notification.

That he did not remember setting up.

For an e-mail blast he absolutely did not sign up for.

“What the fuck, Gina,” Killian mumbled under his breath and Will sounded like he was actually cackling, one arm thrown over his face as the whole couch shook under his weight. “Jeez, Scarlet, I promise you, it is not that funny.” “It is,” he argued. “Did you have to put your phone number on that mountain of paperwork you signed your life away to last week?” “Probably. It all started to blur together a bit at the end.” Will clicked his tongue. “See, that’s where you made your first mistake. You’ve got to read the fine print, Hook. Otherwise you’re going to get roped into Cora’s, I don’t know, scepter of journalism dominance.” “I don’t think that’s the string of words you were looking for.” “Yeah, well, you didn’t get contact information from your sources, so forgive me for having to take over the mantle of the word leader.” “Stop talking.” Will chuckled again, finally pulling his arm away from his face and swinging his feet back onto the floor. “Seriously, though. That’s Cora’s thing. Everyone in the company gets ‘em when they start. Front page blasts and breaking news blasts and, I’m pretty sure, you can sign up for section specific blasts and keywords and I don’t think I can say the word blast again without actually laughing.” “Yeah, that’s fair,” Killian admitted. “So, wait, that’s Cora’s thing? Not Gina?” “You’ve got to stop thinking we’re all on the same team here.” Killian considered that for a moment, chewing on his lip and wondering when Will learned how to actually look like a serious adult. Probably around the same time Hannah moved to Washington and he stopped taking photos if he wasn’t promised a paycheck. They were, easily, the most depressing group of people in the entire New York metropolitan area.

And Cora Mills was nothing if not ruthless.

That was a good word for it. She’d married into money when she was young – a fact she was quick to point out to anyone with a pulse whether they wanted to listen or not – and made something of that money by building up Mills Media when her husband died. The Daily Caller hadn’t been much more than a glorified blog before Cora decided it was hers and, thirty-odd years later, it was one of the top sites in the entire goddamn world, with enough web traffic to make Killian’s head spin, even if that merlot story had been awful.

He’d clicked on the merlot story.

A lot of people clicked on the merlot story and every story, every day, no matter how trite the headline or the stock photo that went along with it.

It made Cora millions and, by extension, made Regina millions and only one of them was happy with that fact. She’d never admit it out loud – not when her mother was pulling the strings, but, once, Regina wanted a paper and a byline and an outlet that didn’t just tell stories. She wanted to tell good stories. Stories that drew hits and revenue and gave a bit of ink, electronic or otherwise, to the so-called little guy.

Killian graduated with those same ideals and that same hope, evident in every single byline – tell the good story, the true story, the story people otherwise would never hear. That changed in New Orleans and one night and that story was as far from good as anything else. And Regina had gone back to Cora, had lost that shine as soon as the police told her Daniel had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and Killian never believed that story.

But it wasn’t a good one.

It was goddamn depressing.

So he ignored it and he let the depressing seep into everything, let the memory of her sit in the back of his head like a weight until it was as dead as the people he wrote about and that was easier than trying to fight it.

Liam would hate that.

Fuck.

“Hook, you’ve got to stop spacing out on me,” Will said sharply, suddenly right in front of the desk with one hand on the wood and the other one flicking Killian’s left forearm. Killian glared at him. Will didn’t move an inch. “Got your attention didn’t it?” “That’s an absolute dick move,” he growled.

“You really haven’t figured it out yet?” “What?” “Regina is staging a battle for your soul.” Killian blinked. And then fell back on sarcasm and being an asshole and that was easy. That was comfortable. “That so?” he asked. “I can’t imagine it’ll be much of a fight.” “Asshole.” “Yes.”

Will rolled his eyes, knocking over a nameplate that likely cost a questionable amount of money so he could sit on the edge of the desk. “Can we have this conversation without you actually cracking jokes? Because this is almost serious and I need you to understand what’s happening here.” Killian wasn’t expecting that – or the look on Will’s face, back to adult and meaningful and he really didn’t have anything else to do. Except maybe try and find an apartment uptown. He was going to move back uptown.

Liam probably wouldn’t like that either.

“Yeah,” Killian promised and it might have been the most sincere thing he’d said in the last week. “Explain, Scarlet.” “Cora didn’t want you here. She didn’t care about your staff cuts or your layoffs or whatever. She, and this is verbatim from Gina, said serves him right for that spiral years ago. I thought Locksley was actually going to punch her.”

Killian stiffened, pressing his feet into the carpet underneath him as he tried to count to ten. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Oxygen was important. Vital. He had to keep breathing. And Cora Mills had no idea what she was talking about.

It wasn’t a spiral.

It was a...downfall.

He’d been twenty-two, a year out of college with a string of bylines and a freelancing gig that was enough to pay the bills and he’d been happy. He was writing. He was telling stories. Until his phone rang. There’d been nothing but a phone call – it wasn’t anything more than a training exercise gone wrong, an engineering mishap that should have been smooth sailing and, even now, the pun made Killian’s tongue feel too big for his mouth and he could taste bile in the back of his throat and the whole world felt like it was falling off its axis again.

Dead.

Captain Liam Jones, pride of no one except his younger brother, was dead. In a goddamn fucking training accident.

And the United States Navy simply expected Killian to move on. Like Liam hadn’t been the foundation of absolutely everything, hadn’t supported a career in journalism like that was even a career, like he hadn’t read every single byline, no matter where he was.

Killian got a check and an apology on template stationary and it took all of five seconds to decide he was done. He left New York the next week, paid off his half of the rent, kissed Regina on the cheek and walked away.

He stopped writing good stories and started writing any story, bouncing from weeklies to dailies to one company in Missouri that might have actually been a glorified newsletter. Until he got to New Orleans and sat down at a bar after writing about a triple homicide that would still probably end up below the fold and she smiled when he spoke.

Like that was just something people did.

Milah Ormagia was sad and tired and she wanted in a way Killian didn’t remember wanting until he saw her. So he took and he found his way back towards something that felt a bit like happiness and if he closed his eyes he could still remember the exact curve of her smile and the way her hair frizzed softly in the humidity and how cold her hand felt in his when he woke up on pavement with lights and sirens blaring around him.

It almost seemed ironic that when the doctors told him they did all they could, they took that hand. He was a goddamn dismal story.

“So,” Killian said, licking his lips and trying to keep his voice even. He wasn’t fooling Scarlet. “If Cora didn’t want me here, how did this happen? It’s not like Gina to just…” “Stand up to her mother like that?” Will suggested. Killian shrugged. “I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what she said exactly, but whatever it was did the trick. Cora agreed, as long as you bring in the hits. That’s the deal. You write you want. You tell this good story and you bring in the ad revenue and Cora won’t kick you out of this very fancy office.” “When did Gina even find the time to decorate this?” “I’m not convinced she sleeps.” “Yeah, that’s probably true,” Killian mused. “Ok, so let me get this straight. Gina promises Cora I can bring in the numbers and that’s, suddenly, good?” “It’s because she thinks you won’t.” Oh. Yeah, that made sense. Cora wasn’t exactly the nurturing sort. She was more the take what you want and fuck anyone who stands in your way sort. And, in this instance, Killian was very much in the way. And very much a reminder of why Regina wanted to write in the first place.

“Shit,” he sighed, hand back in his hair and shoulders sagging with the sudden weight of the journalism world on his shoulders.

“It’s a good story,” Will said, like that would just make everything alright. “And if you do this the way you can, then, maybe, Cora will loosen up a little bit.” “You honestly believe that?”

Will shrugged, tugging on the end of the Hunter Alumni shirt he must have pulled out of the back corner of his closet that morning. “You can write, Killian,” he said simply. “That’s always been the case. Gina wouldn’t have brought you home if she didn’t agree. Or think you could do something here that can change this whole, stupid clickbait site. But, you know, no pressure or anything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Killian scoffed. He’d bit his lip, blood in his mouth and nerves in the pit of his stomach and he wished, not for the first time since he’d come back home, that Liam was there. If only to listen to him whine.

God, he wanted to whine.

And maybe talk to Emma Swan again.

“Really though,” Will continued, crossing his arms lightly over his chest. “I’m not saying you’re changing the world with video game stories. But they seemed like good people and it’s interesting and it’s...I don’t know, nice.” “Nice,” Killian echoed skeptically.

“If I used the word good again, my brain is actually going to explode.” Killian smiled, some of the tension that had been tight as a vice at the base of his skull loosening just a bit. “You’re a poet, Scarlet.” “And you don’t have to write about death because it’s the only thing you think you’re worthy of doing anymore. We’ve come full circle. You get to come home, save the integrity of the modern journalism world and get the girl.” “What was that last part?” “Yeah, honestly, what was that last part?” Robin leaned around the open doorway, eyebrows lifted and something that might have been amusement lingering on his face as Killian tried to groan as loudly as he possibly could.

“Don’t you have a section to run?” Killian asked, grabbing one of the, apparently, two-hundred pens sitting on his desk, and tapping it loudly. Robin grinned.

“No,” he said. “It’s a website, Killian. There’s like..three people actually sitting in news right now.” “Oh, to be the high and mighty editorial elite.” “Twerp.”

Killian winced. “That just makes me think you’re disciplining Henry and Roland.” “You think I call my kids twerps? What kind of father do you think I am?”

“Obviously not a very good one,” Will muttered, dropping back into the corner of the couch. “Hey, how come Regina’s never gotten me a fancy office with window walls and a couch that costs more than my rent?” “That couch does not cost more than your rent,” Robin said and it wasn’t an answer to the question. Will lifted his eyebrows. “And it’s because Gina likes Hook more than you, obviously. God knows why, it’s not like he’s actually done anything since he got here.” “Ok, that’s rude,” Killian mumbled, but he couldn’t really argue and maybe Will had gotten phone numbers during the meet and greet. He probably would have mentioned that. He absolutely wouldn’t have mentioned that.

God damn.

“Is it because he’s thinking about this girl?” Robin asked, ignoring Killian completely and sinking down next to Will with a very specific look on his face. Maybe if Killian just walked out they wouldn’t notice. He could...do something else. Anything else.

He could go back to that midtown bar and ask Granny for a phone number. Or apartment address. Or Emma Swan’s entire life history.

That last one seemed kind of extreme.

Although even the idea of walking into the middle of Times Square on a Friday in the summer was enough to leave Killian wondering where exactly he’d misplaced his mind.

“It’s totally about this girl,” Will confirmed. “She was pretty, Hook. I get it.” “God, shut up,” Killian hissed and this all felt a little juvenile. Two minutes ago they’d been talking about his entire life falling off the rails and how much Cora Mills still hated him just for breathing and now Will Scarlet was trying to gossip with him about girls like they were fourteen.

“She was!” “Wait, wait,” Robin interrupted, hands flailing through the open air in front of him. “You met her? Also can we stop using the word girl, it’s freaking me out.” “We could just stop talking about this completely,” Killian suggested, but the words might have been in Latin for all the good they did him. Will was already talking over him.

“Yeah, I met her,” he said, grabbing a camera off the ground and toying with the controls on the top until he, apparently, found what he was looking for. “Here,” he continued, pushing the screen towards Robin’s face until the older man’s eyebrows shifted slightly and he hummed in the back of his throat.

“She is pretty. Is that...Hook are you the guy sitting at that booth?” Killian tried not to throw something – like his very expensive new office chair through the wall of windows behind him. Or his actual body through the wall of windows behind him. “Who else do you think it would be?” he asked impatiently.

“I have no idea,” Robin admitted, not pulling his eyes away from the few inches of photo screen. “This is just...you look happy?” “That sounded like a question.” “It kind of was. I actually think you’re smiling and you’re leaning forward. With both hands. Oh shit, Scarlet. Look at this. He’s got both hands on the table.” Will snatched the camera out of Robin’s hands, mouth going slack when he realized it was true and Killian bit his lip until he could taste blood again. When he’d woken up in the hospital they’d told him he’d been out of it for a few days and that one of his lungs had collapsed and he had four broken ribs and his left arm probably wouldn’t ever be totally straight again – or complete.

He wasn’t ever much of an athlete or particularly vain, but Killian didn’t think it was selfish to want to be a whole, human being and as soon as they’d released him from the hospital, he’d realized he wouldn’t ever be.

Not again.

So he did his best to ignore it. That was a bit of a trend for him. Ignore and move on and keep writing. And never draw attention to it, the piece of plastic at the end of his arm and the straps that held it in place and left little rivets on his skin no matter what he seemed to do to try and make it even remotely comfortable.

“Oh fuck, he’s right, Hook,” Will mumbled and either they didn’t realize this was exactly the kind of conversation Killian didn’t want to have or they absolutely did not care. It was probably the second one. “You’re totally leaning in. That’s a thing, right?” “A thing?” Killian repeated. “Yeah, you know, like a peacock or something.” “English.” “He’s saying you’re into her,” Robin explained. “He has no idea how body language or animals work and it’s ruining his metaphors.” “Ah, well, yeah, of course.” “She work at that restaurant where you met the team?” Will made some kind of strangled sound, seemingly trying to melt into the corner of the couch and Robin looked incredibly confused. Actually jumping through the wall seemed like a pretty appealing option. “What am I missing?” Robin continued.

“I mean, she does kind of work at the restaurant,” Killian mumbled. “So you’re not totally wrong. I don’t think she’ll have much time for that though. If this works out.” “If what works out?” “The League cut. They’re totally going to make the cut so…” “You’re not making any sense.” “She’s on the team,” Will muttered, staring at the photo again and whatever animal metaphor he was trying to come up with. “Or, more to the point, she is the team.”

Robin was standing up and pacing and glaring at Killian like he was actually his kid and had just shown up with a detention slip. “What the fuck, Killian?” he asked sharply, not even bothering to slow down when he started talking.

He was picking up speed.

“It’s not like anything happened,” Killian argued, not quite sure what it was he was arguing exactly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing. He’d talked. And given her his card. And maybe participated in some entirely harmless flirting.

That’s what that had been, right?

It felt a hell of a lot like flirting. Or maybe friendship? They could be friends. They should probably be friends. That would make a year-long feature series easier. If they made the cut next week.

They were totally going to make the cut.

Killian could be friends with Emma Swan. He wanted to be friends with Emma Swan. And he was kind of terrified of Ruby Lucas, fairly certain she’d actually eat him if he dared put a toe out of line.

“Both hands, Killian,” Robin shouted, skidding to a stop in front of the desk and staring at him like he was defying him to object.

“There is only one hand, Locksley,” Killian said softly. “That’s how it works now. And nothing happened. Or will happen. Ethics or whatever.” Will whistled, low and judgmental and Killian wished he’d leave and wished Robin would stop doing that thing with his face. His phone made noise again – another e-mail blast. “You know you can turn those off,” Robin said, an apology without actually using the words.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“Man, Scarlet gets all the good updates first.” “You’re busy. That section we talked about. Or whatever.” “You’ve got to come up with another word.” “My vocabulary has been kind of limited recently. It’ll get better once I start writing again.” Robin quirked an eyebrow, tongue pressed on the inside of his cheek and Killian tried to take a deep breath. He just needed to write something. If he started writing something, anything, the rest of it would all fall into place.

He was positive.

“Yeah, I know,” Robin said. This had been the strangest conversation. Killian probably shouldn’t have spent so much time thinking about Emma Swan in the last few days. She had impossibly green eyes. “Although, for what it’s worth, she was leaning in too.”

Killian didn’t say anything. He couldn’t come up with a single word. And there was another person in his office.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Ariel said brusquely, nodding at each one of them in turn before settling on Robin. “We are having some kind of link disaster.” “What?” Robin balked. The shift from concerned friend and quasi parent to front page managing editor was abrupt and just a bit jarring – his shoulders rolled back and his spine seemed to extend and Killian was half positive the slight gray at his temples looked a bit more distinguished all of the sudden.

“A link disaster,” Ariel repeated. “People are calling. Aurora’s losing her mind. I think Regina made her cry already.” “Oh my God,” Killian laughed, earning the ire of Robin’s glare. He grinned in response. “C’mon, Gina’s making people named Aurora cry. Who’s Aurora?” “Her assistant,” Ariel explained. Killian hummed in understanding, appreciating whatever attitude the receptionist had that allowed her to just barrel into his office like she owned it. “And she’s still kind of shaking at her desk. Because none of the links on the main page are going where they’re supposed to be going. You click on one thing and it goes to a totally different story.”

“Well, that’s not ideal,” Will laughed, thumb spinning something on the back of the camera. Robin looked like he wanted to beat him with it.

“Thank you, Scarlet,” he bit out before softening his expression slightly when he glanced back at Ariel. “Do you know where Gina is now that she’s done terrorizing assistants? She hasn’t killed any interns has she?” “We have interns?” Killian asked, joining the conversation and working another groan out of Robin. “That’s a fair question.” “Maybe not during a link crisis,” Ariel reasoned and he shrugged, pressing his lips together. “I told Aurora she needed to fix the base code, but she’s totally freaked, so I don’t think there’s anything to do on that front and Sydney is, apparently, missing in action so that’s why Cora’s pissed. More so than usual.” “You know how to fix this?” Robin asked, something that sounded a bit like desperation creeping into his voice.

Ariel shook her head. “I know the general idea of how to fix this. Sydney’s engineering or whatever his card says.” “Engineering’s just a very fancy way of saying IT. If you can fix this now, at least stem the damage, Gina might build a statue of you in the lobby.” “It’d be difficult to see around my desk if she did that.” “Yeah, you really here for the receptionist gig?” She shook her head again, hair hitting against the side of her chin and no one in that office was really telling the full story. That was kind of ironic too. Maybe it was because they’d used the word good so often.

“No,” Ariel admitted softly and Killian bit back a grin. “You want to go fix this link disaster though? Because I really think Aurora’s going to have some kind of actual episode if we don’t fix at least the main story.” “The main story’s fucked up too?” “What part of emergency did you not understand, Locksley?” Will asked, not even bothering to disguise his laugh. “Aren’t you an editor?” “Don’t ask him that,” Killian warned. “He’ll bite your head off.” “Both of you, shut up,” Robin snapped. “Ariel, what time is it? And how long do you think this emergency is going to last?” She tugged her phone – buzzing and possibly flashing some kind of morse code – out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. “Uh, nearly four-thirty. And I have no idea. Again, emergency kind of suggests it’s bad. We should have fixed this five minutes ago.” “Shit. Ok, um, Aurora probably can’t cope with the Subway right now, right?” Will pushed off the corner of the couch to glance over the row of cubicles on the office floor in front of them and whatever he saw seemed to make it painfully obvious that Aurora absolutely, positively could not hand the Subway at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon.

“Yeah, uh,” he stammered, dropping back onto the cushion with a thump. “That’s not happening right now.” “Shit,” Robin repeated. He grabbed his own phone, thumbs flying across the screen as he clenched his jaw tightly. “Maybe they can stay a little while longer.” “Who are you talking about?” Killian asked, fairly certain he was only half involved in the conversation taking place in his own office. That was still a weird sentence.

“He’s referring to his kids as a collective they,” Will mumbled. Robin kicked him, a string of insults that absolutely would not have been appropriate in front of his kids falling out of his mouth. “And he’s talking about picking them up from that summer program. You know where Gina met that teacher who suggested the story that your whole career is depending on?” “You are the soul of tact. And I can go get ‘em. It’s not like I’m doing anything here. I know shit about coding.” Will rolled his eyes. “You want to date your lead source.” Ariel perked up at that, eyes flashing Killian’s direction. Robin kicked Will again. “He’s not doing that,” he said, sounding like he was issuing some sort of journalism decree. “You’d really go get ‘em, Hook? Honestly?”

“Yeah, sure,” Killian nodded, grabbing his phone off the desk. He hadn’t brought anything else. He didn’t have anything to write yet.

Robin exhaled loudly, clapping him on the shoulder like he’d also just agreed to pay the tuition for whatever fancy school Henry and Roland went to. “Thanks,” he breathed, nodding towards Ariel as she moved back towards the door and the emergency. “Just bring them back home when you’re done and Gina will probably let you eat dinner with us. Scarlet can come too.” “Wow, gee thanks, Locksley,” Will muttered, slinging his cameras back over his shoulders. “No can do though. I’ve got a date.” “What?” Killian and Robin shouted at the same time. Robin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Who?” Killian pressed and Will just grinned, a stupid, frustrating look that made him regret coming into the office to begin with at all.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. Go save Locksley’s kids, Hook. I’ve got places to be.” He walked out of the office with the grin still plastered on his face and cameras hitting against his thigh, Ariel already loudly comforting Aurora on the other side of the floor. Robin didn’t move an inch, just kept staring at Killian like he was waiting for him to explode.

Killian wouldn’t have been surprised if he did.

Maybe he should take a cab.

“You ok?” he asked. “Honestly?” Killian’s lips twitched, the lie on the tip of his tongue getting twisted there. He nodded. Robin sighed. “You’ve got to work on that,” he mumbled. “Rol and Henry will be thrilled to see you. Don’t get ice cream.” It took Killian four blocks of stop-and-go traffic to decide, without question, that they were going to get ice cream. With sprinkles.

Living on the edge.

He’d probably expense it.

It took him another two blocks to decide he probably should have walked.

He handed the driver a handful of bills, promising he was sure, yeah, yeah, it’s fine as he dodged between oncoming traffic and made his way up 3rd Avenue. The school itself didn’t stand out much – set between the brownstones and ivy-covered walls that were the norm downtown, but Killian could hear voices and laughter and something that might have actually been a basketball bouncing.

Or multiple basketballs.

And if he was in the sudden habit of keeping track of how long it took to realize things, it would have taken Killian two seconds, one deep breath and four basketball dribbles to know, without question, he was in the right spot. The very solid weight colliding with the side of his jeans was also a good sign.

“K, K, K, K,” Roland mumbled, added a few well placed punches in between nicknames. It was somewhere in between punch two and three that Killian felt any lingering frustration over the conversation in his office – and the promise that he absolutely did not want to date Emma Swan – ebbing just a bit as soon as the seven-year-old next to him wrapped his arms around his thigh.

There were other footsteps running towards them and Killian dimly heard Henry yell Hook from the other side of the basketball court as he bent down to pry Roland’s hands off his jeans, hauling him up his side and groaning slightly when a knee collided with his gallbladder. “Steady on, mate,” Killian muttered. He got kneed in the liver that time.

“Roland, you can’t just run away like that,” said a flustered woman, sprinting towards them with wide eyes and a basketball tucked under her arm.

Roland made a noise, a mix between a scoff and a groan and Henry laughed in the background. Killian tried to look like an adult. “I didn’t run away, Mrs. Nolan,” Roland explained, sounding like he was detailing how to fix the coding emergency Killian had run away from. “I came to see K.” Mrs. Nolan’s eyes, somehow, got even wider, eyebrows shooting up her forehead and her mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’ when she realized. She looked like a teacher, Killian thought, all bright-colored dress and a soft cardigan that matched the clip in her short, brown hair.

“Huh,” she said, regarding him softly and Killian felt like he was being judged. Or maybe examined to match up on previously reported facts.

That seemed like wishful thinking.

“Hook,” Henry said again, skidding to a stop in front of him and only avoiding another crash when Killian reached out a steadying hand. “How come you’re here? I thought Robin was coming to get us?” “Where’s Dad?” Roland asked. Shouted. He shouted the word into Killian’s ears. Mrs. Nolan was still staring.

“There was a thing at the site,” Killian explained, hitching Roland back up again when he started to droop, threatening to tear his shirt in half. “So I’m here. With ice cream as a bartering chip.”

Henry’s eyes lit up, smile practically sprinting across his face, and Roland was already yelling about chocolate chip cookie dough. Mrs. Nolan hadn’t blinked. “Alright,” Killian continued slowly, nodding back towards the sidewalk. “You guys ready to go? Do I have to sign anything or…” “Wait, wait,” Mrs. Nolan said quickly, tugging on Roland’s sleeve when Killian took a step backwards. “You can’t just leave.” “No?” “No,” she said sharply and he was back to feeling like he was getting detention. “I mean...who, well, no, I know who are you. But there are rules. An actual parent is supposed to let us know if someone different is going to be picking the kids up. You’re not on the list.” “That’s kind of insulting,” Killian muttered, working another laugh out of Henry and that was absolutely why he’d done it. He slung his arm over the kid’s shoulders – only a few inches shorter than him – and tried to plaster on his most convincing smile. “I mean, they clearly know who I am.” “The rules, Mr. Jones.” “You clearly know who I am.” Mrs. Nolan grimaced, a muscle in her temple jumping and Killian felt guilty for a moment. She almost looked too teacher’y. She shouldn’t look as stressed out as she was. Jeez. “Were you going to go next week?” she asked and that wasn’t the question he expected at all.

Killian opened his mouth to respond, but another voice joined the melee and his eyes were going to go permanently crossed if he kept trying to look at everyone at once. Ruby Lucas looked just as intimidating as she had in her grandmother’s Midtown restaurant the week before, only now she was wearing a Legend of Zelda t-shirt that was, clearly, far more interesting to the two kids in the conversation than Killian’s initial ice cream offer.

“What are you doing here?” Ruby asked. Straight to the point then.

“There was a coding emergency at work and Robin couldn’t pick up Henry and Rol,” Killian answered. “So I’m here.” “You know Henry and Roland?” “I mean, yeah, obviously.”

“K’s going to take us to get ice cream,” Roland added helpfully, squirming when Killian muttered a little quieter, mate against his hair.

Ruby quirked an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be writing?” “Shouldn’t you be practicing?” Mrs. Nolan tried to turn her laugh into a cough, ducking her eyes when Killian and Ruby both gaped at her. “I’m also helping out a friend,” Ruby said softly. “And we practiced this morning. Not that you’d know, since you’ve been missing in action for the last week.” “Is that a gaming term?” Killian asked.

Henry groaned. “Hook, we’ve been over this. You can’t call it that. It just makes you sound old.”

Ruby might have actually smiled. Mrs. Nolan laughed again. “Are you taking lessons from Henry?” Ruby asked knowingly.

“I have yet to find a better teacher,” Killian admitted. “In fact, post ice cream, that was the great, big Friday night plan, wasn’t it? Or it would be if we can leave. Mrs. Nolan’s call though.” “Oh man, laying it on real thick aren’t you?” Killian shrugged. “M’s did you hear that? He called you Mrs. Nolan. I’m going to tell Ruth.”

“She’ll probably think it’s nice,” Mary Margaret muttered. “This is a one-time favor, Mr. Jones. And only because I have no idea what a coding emergency is.”

“That’s ok, neither do I. That’s why I’m here. And let’s not do that Mr. Jones thing again, that’s incredibly weird.” She nodded, tossing the ball back to the group of kids behind her when they started shouting. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. About next week.” He hadn’t. He’d been hoping to avoid that. He was an absolute shit journalist. “I’m hoping to,” Killian said. Mary Margaret glanced at Ruby.

“Don’t you know?” “It’d be helpful for the story.” “And,” Ruby prodded, widening her eyes meaningfully.

“And I’m waiting for some more details,” Killian responded simply. Good. That was good. That was honest. Ruby didn’t look convinced.

“Well that’s dumb. I thought you were supposed to be a good journalist. Or at least a journalist who wanted to prove he was still good. Haven’t you won awards? Unless the Google results lied to us.” Killian pressed his teeth into his lower lip, swallowing back his immediate retort when he remembered there was a seven-year-old clinging to his side and an eleven-year-old under his arm and he was an adult, god damn. He could have this conversation – even if it felt like six different conversations at once.

“Ruby,” Mary Margaret chastised, flashing an apologetic look at Killian. “Ignore her. She’s been outside for too long, it’s throwing off her zen or something.”

“Ah, yeah, video game stereotypes.” “Exactly that. Can I, uh, can I give you some advice?” “Solicited or forced?” Mary Margaret’s eyes narrowed and Killian ducked his gaze, suddenly far more preoccupied with his shoes than whatever was happening on that blacktop in downtown Manhattan. Henry laughed against his side. “Suggested,” Mary Margaret corrected, reaching out to rest her palm on the arm he still had wrapped around Roland’s waist. “This is all vaguely...terrifying for, well, you know. But, uh, I wouldn’t have said anything to Regina if I didn’t think this could work. For all of you. And she totally Google’d your name on my couch a week ago.” Killian’s stomach twisted at that, several knots that even Liam probably would have been proud of forming in his gut. It might have also been Roland’s knee. And he could only imagine what she found on the internet.

Fuck.

He was going to get chocolate dip on his ice cream – forget the goddamn sprinkles.

“Ah, well,” he stammered, eyes still staring at his feet. “That’s...good to know. And I kind of got that impression already.” “Good.” “So what are you going to do about it?” Ruby asked sharply and Killian jerked his head back up. He nearly dropped Roland.

“Excuse me?” Mary Margaret sighed, her hand falling across her face until she was peering at them between her fingers. Ruby didn’t budge an inch. “I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” she growled. “How come you haven’t been back to practice? Or have a concrete answer about writing something for the cut? We’re totally going to make the cut.” “I know,” Killian said easily.

Ruby’s eyebrows pulled low, head tilted slightly and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Yeah?” “Why wouldn’t I think that?” “Shouldn’t you answer questions better? You’re a journalist.” “You keep throwing that fact in my face,” Killian laughed. “Trust me, I’m aware of it. And I’m purposely avoiding questions because I know how.” “That is infuriating.” “Try doing it on deadline.” Ruby grinned that slightly predatory grin, tongue pressed against her cheek and she turned to look at Mary Margaret again like she was looking for confirmation of...something. Mary Margaret nodded. “Ok,” Ruby said, holding her hand out expectantly. “I’m going to do something, but if you screw this up, I’m going to push you in front of the uptown 1. Got it?” “That is oddly specific,” Killian muttered. Ruby wiggled her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Your phone. I want your phone. I am helping you.” “Strangely enough, I’m not getting that vibe.”

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, bumping her shoulder against Ruby’s and her face was nearly as red as the sweater she had on. “I can’t blame the sun again,” she mumbled. “This is just her.” “Phone, Jones,” Ruby commanded and Killian dropped the thing in her hand without another word, having to shift Roland just a bit in the process. Several of his internal organs were going to suffer permanent damage from this conversation. “You learn anything about the game yet?” she continued conversationally, typing something into his phone and handing it back to him with a glint in her eye.

Killian glanced down, breath hitching in his throat when he saw the brand-new name in his contacts. Swan. No, Emma. No, Emma Swan. Just a last name and, maybe, a nickname and Ruby probably hadn’t been asking about Overwatch.

“That’s a distinct work in progress,” Killian admitted and Ruby hummed. “I can almost name all the characters now though.” “We’re working on powers,” Henry added. “And why Roadhog is the worst character to play.” “What?” Ruby gasped. “Please, kid. That chain hook is a huge help when you’re fighting in close quarters. And he doesn’t take much to get back to full health. He’s an underrated character.” Henry shrugged. “I like Doomfist.” “You can play Doomfist?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “The canon is sweet.” They were never going to get ice cream. And Roland was getting impatient. “Alright, kid,” Killian interrupted, pulling on the back of Henry’s shirt when he ducked out from underneath his arm to try and recreate a part of the game. “C’mon. I promised Robin you guys would be home eventually. And if we’re going to sneak ice cream, we’ve got to go now.” “Ice cream,” Roland repeated shrilly, lunging towards Henry and nearly face planting on the ground. All three adults in a five-foot radius moved at the same time. “Henry, we have to get ice cream!”

“Yeah, yeah, ok” Henry agreed, albeit a little despondently. “But, uh, could I maybe come watch you guys play next week?” he asked, glancing hopefully at Ruby and Killian.

“Of course,” Ruby promised quickly. And maybe just a bit enthusiastically. “I mean, well, as long as it’s cool with your parents. And Killian. If he’s planning on actually showing.” “I am,” Killian said.

Ruby smiled. “Then absolutely. We’ll get you a team t-shirt.” Henry looked like he was actually going to start jumping for joy. “And maybe one for Killian too if he learns how to play the game.” He needed to find other adult human beings who were able to have a conversation without trying to actually hit him over the head with meaning.

They, eventually, did get ice cream and were no less than forty-five minutes late to dinner. None of them ate dinner. They’d had ice cream instead.

And Regina was going to kill him.

“Seriously?” she hissed for what was, at least, the forty-second time since Killian had walked into the full-floor apartment on Spring Street hours before. Roland was asleep between them, head on Regina’s lap and feet draped over Killian’s legs, while Henry tried to explain what it was something called a Junkrat did and why he was so important to winning the game.

The actual one. Not the metaphorical one.

“You fix the coding on the site?” Killian countered and Regina raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Make any other assistants cry?” “Ass,” she grumbled.

“You’ve got to come up with better insults, your majesty. These are just getting redundant.”

She rolled her eyes, brushing her fingers over Roland’s hair. “I only have one assistant. By the way.” “I didn’t know you had any. People like to keep me out of the loop.” “Including your sources?” “You checking up on me?” Killian asked, hoping against some kind of improbable hope that sarcasm and even more deflection would get him the hell out of the conversation. Not with Regina. And not in her domain. Or something. The whole goddamn city was her domain at this point. Maybe that’s why he was still staying in a hotel uptown.

Regina leveled him with an even stare, eyes boring into his brain and possibly his soul and Killian wouldn’t have been surprised if she was just reading his mind when his phone started to ring – loudly. Roland grumbled, one foot pressed roughly into Killian’s thigh as he tried to grab his phone off the coffee table before it could actually shatter or Regina could keep hissing god, turn your volume down.

He nearly dropped it.

Swan.

“Huh,” Regina said, peering at the screen over shoulder. “Must be nice to have sources that return your calls.” “You say that wistfully, your majesty,” Killian muttered. He couldn’t seem to move.

“Answer your phone, Killian. Preferably in another room.”

He tried to extricate himself from what felt like the limbs of several seven-year-olds, careful not to knock Roland off the couch as he moved towards the hallway and swiped his thumb across his phone screen. “Hello?” he asked softly, dimly aware of Regina’s not-so-quiet laughter.

“Uh, hi, hey,” Emma mumbled and he was smiling. He could feel the muscles in his cheeks move, lips quirking up quickly and automatically and, well, that was weird. He stopped three-quarters of the way down the hallway, sliding down the wall and stretching his legs out. He hadn’t actually said anything back. “Killian?” she asked.

He hit his head on the wall.

“Yeah, yeah, here,” he said quickly, nearly stumbling over the words in an effort to get them out. “I, uh, is everything ok, Swan?” “Yeah.” Silence. Dead silence. Dead, uncomfortable silence.

“Well, no,” Emma corrected softly and those knots in his stomach had made a rather glorious return. “I...I wanted to apologize.” “For what, love?” The word was out of his mouth before he could even consider it and he heard the change in her breath, the soft catch like she couldn't quite get enough of it. Killian knew the feeling. “Sorry, no nicknames.” “You’ve broken that rule twice already, you know.” “Yeah,” he laughed softly. “I realize that. It’s, uh...habit, I suppose.” “You frequently call all the girls nicknames? Set ‘em at ease so they start spilling their on-the-record guts?” He shook his head, only realizing he was still sitting in a hallway when Emma laughed in his ear. “See, your silence kind of answers the question for me.” “I can neither confirm nor deny that it is sometimes easier to get information out of sources when one is trying to be decidedly charming.” If he got Emma to laugh like that – simple and easy and like some tiny, warm light that seemed to seep into the very center of him in the hallway of an apartment he didn’t live in – Killian would be certain coming back to New York was the right choice.

It kind of felt like the right choice.

“So what you’re telling me is you think you’re charming?” Emma asked.

“Decidedly.” “Is that what you were trying to do before? Last week I mean. Charm me to get me to talk?” “No,” Killian said, an immediate and honest response that sounded like he was shouting the word into the phone.

She stopped laughing and Killian resisted the urge to sigh at that. “Didn’t even bring a pen,” she whispered. Fuck.

“Shit journalist.” “That’s not true,” Emma argued, voice just a bit stronger than it had been all conversation. “I mean...well, that’s not what the internet said.” Killian narrowed his eyes – Mary Margaret’s words from that afternoon ringing in his ears. She totally Google’d your name on my couch a week ago. “Did you look me up, love?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t actually crack like some prepubescent kid with a crush.

That kind of went with the theme of the day.

“Did you really win a Louisiana Press Association Award for exposing a drug ring in New Orleans?” Huh. She must have Google’d for a very long time. And that felt like some kind of distant memory – he’d been in the hospital when they held the fucking awards ceremony. He never even saw that plaque.

“Killian?” Emma pressed. He hit his head again.

“Yeah.” “Was that an answer to the original question or just acknowledging me shouting your name?” He laughed – sharp and shaky, but a laugh all the same and he wished he’d called her first. Ethics. There were ethics involved and this had gotten very murky, very quickly. “Both,” Killian smiled. “How far back did you go on those search results, Swan?”

“Mary Margaret shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s very unlike her.” “To be fair, she was distracted. A charming guy like myself, shows up at her school and promises two adorable kids ice cream. It’s no wonder she didn’t just start spilling your entire life story to me by default.” Emma made a strangled noise, a gasp and maybe sheer terror and Killian was back on his feet quickly, heart hammering against his chest as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. “Swan? Are you ok?” “Fine,” she bit out, exhaling loudly. “Fine, I’m fine. Jeez. I’m...this conversation is garbage isn’t it?” “Confusing,” Killian conceded. “I wouldn't call it garbage, though.”

“Generous. You want to talk about the Louisiana Press Association now?”

“What about it?” “Exposing a drug ring seems a far cry from video game stories,” Emma said. “And mass murderers in Boston.” He chuckled under his breath, sinking back onto the floor and tugging on his hair. “They’re all stories in the end, Swan.” “Good ones?” “Some more than others.” “Follow-up?” “Yeah, sure,” Killian said and he was absolutely the one being charmed. God, he should have asked Mary Margaret more questions. He was too terrified of Ruby.

“Why go to the mass murders? I mean, was that, like, a personal decision or a front office thing? Is that even a journalism term? Front office? Editorial! That’s what it’d be called right, editorial? And why stick in Boston? That’s the longest you were in one spot for a really long time. Even longer than New York and….” She cut herself off, gasping slightly when she realized her follow-up was more of a short speech. Killian was grinning like a fool at the opposite wall. “Shit,” Emma mumbled. “That was a lot. You should have told me to shut up.” “I didn’t want you to shut up.”

“Oh.” “Start from the beginning, huh?” Emma hummed and he could almost picture her sitting across from him – the way her tongue had darted across her lips when they sat in the booth, how she twisted her hair around her fingers and rolled her shoulders when she was nervous.

“Alright,” he began. “So I grew up in New York, went to school here, like I told you, started writing here until...circumstances changed. And so I left. Went to Colorado for a couple of months because it was the furthest thing from New York I could imagine. Realized I couldn’t quite stand mountain air or, you know, mountains. Then did stringer work at what felt like seven-hundred newspapers on the west coast, liked that a little bit more, appreciated the Bay Area for the water and the seafood. Then got a job offer in New Orleans and stayed there for…”

He squeezed his eyes closed, memories washing over him, scents and sounds nearly reaching out and smacking him in the face. He glanced down, staring at his left hand and half expecting to find someone else there.

Of course not.

That was a long time ago.

“So, I stayed in New Orleans for a little over a year,” Killian said. “Started covering news, breaking or otherwise and that story you’re talking about, the one that won the awards, it, uh, took me my whole stint in the city.” “Is that why you left?” Emma asked breathlessly.

“Kind of.” “And you just figured you start with the drugs and turn to homicides because….” Killian shrugged, treading on thin ice in late August. “It made sense,” he admitted, a quiet explanation he’d never actually said out loud. “No one else wanted it. So I took it because I could. They were stories.” “Control,” Emma whispered and Killian made a noise in the back of his throat. “You wanted to have some control.” Well, fuck.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s...exactly it, actually.” “Yeah, I get that.” They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t quite as deadly or uncomfortable as it had been before. It felt a bit like understanding. And maybe he was reading way too much into a second conversation.

“Why did you want to apologize, Swan?” Killian asked, wincing when his voice cut through the silence.

She laughed. “Oh, for M’s and Ruby. This afternoon. On several different fronts. Including M’s being difficult about you getting ice cream to the aforementioned adorable kids. Although, out of context that does sound kind of weird.” “She was doing her job.” “Yeah, she’s fairly certain her job is to mother me.” “That’s not a bad thing, Swan.” “No,” she sighed. “It’s not. But she shouldn’t have to. Not anymore at least. And, maybe, I’m apologizing for something else too.” Killian sat up straighter, pressing his phone against his ear with his shoulder and rubbing his thumb against the top of his brace. “What’s that, love?” “For not telling you when and where the cut was and that I, well, I mean, the team, we’d like you to be there. For the story.”

For the story.

Right. Of course. No other reason except the story. Certainly not because he’d just explained Killian Jones, crime reporter with an extensive knowledge of blood adjectives for the first time since his inception seven years before.

That would be insane.

“That’s alright, Swan,” Killian said, hoping to infuse some sort of belief into the words and the nickname. “That’s not your job. Any journalist worth his salt would have been able to figure it out. Or gotten in contact with you.” “Is this your sly way of saying you didn’t want to contact me?” He nearly screamed the word no into the phone. He probably would have woken up Roland. And he could hear Emma’s smile in her laugh on the other end of the phone, a couch creaking slightly when she moved. “So that’s a no, then?”

“That’s a no.” “Friday. Playstation Theatre. Like all day. We’ll be the ones wearing questionably tacky matching t-shirts, so you should probably put that in your lede.” “Noted.” “Ok,” she said and it sounded like she was still smiling. He really hoped she was still smiling. “So I’ll see you then?” “I’ll text you when I leave.” Killian grimaced, eyes snapping closed again and shit – step too far. At least he hadn’t called it a date. Thought it, sure. Goddamn fucking ethics.

“That sounds like a plan,” Emma muttered and maybe this wasn’t a disaster. “Do you...do you like coffee? I could bring you coffee.” “I like coffee,” Killian grinned.

“I’ll be the one with coffee then.” “Good. Good night, Swan.” “Night, Killian.” He sat on the hallway floor for at least another five minutes after the phone went dead, grumbling out a quiet shut up when he saw Regina’s knowing look as soon as he walked back into the living room.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs #cs fic #video game fic #in which everyone has thoughts and opinions on emma and killian #as a collective unit

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douchebagbrainwaves · 5 years

Text

WHY I'M SMARTER THAN DEFCON

Close, but not as strong. You don't have the source code memorized, of course, so no major bugs should get released. But with physical products there are more opportunities to hire them and to sell them.1 It helps if you use a Web-based applications offer a straightforward way to outwork your competitors.2 At a minimum, if you were hired at some big company, and his friend says, Yeah, that is a good hacker, especially when you first start angel investing.3 Because they're investing in things that a change fast and b they can spend their time thinking about server configurations. Actually what it says is that circuit densities will double every 18 months. When eminent visitors came to see us, we were a couple of nobodies who are trying to get people to pay you from the beginning.4 It's an exciting place.

For the angel to have someone to make the medicine go down. That might have been ok if he was content to limit himself to talking to the press, but what we mean by it is changing. I wanted. And this, as you can, and your competitors can, you tend to feel rich.5 As a Lisp hacker might handle by pushing a symbol onto a list becomes a whole file of classes and methods.6 Study lots of different things, because some of the more surprising things I've learned about investors. What began as combing his hair a little carefully over a thin patch has gradually, over 20 years, grown into a monstrosity.7

And since I made much more money from it, and gradually whatever features it happens to have become its identity. We're impatient. And so all over the place. If a company is doing well, investors will want founders to turn down most acquisition offers. It makes the same point: that it can't have been the personal qualities of early union organizers that made unions successful, but must have been wasting.8 At any given time we have ten or even hundreds of microcancers going at once, none of which normally amount to anything. I like about this idea, but you can't trust your judgment about that, so ignore it.9 Because VCs like publicity. Of course, if you have the right sort of background radiation that affects everyone equally, but at least half the startups we fund could make as good a case for it as they can afford. Joe Kraus's idea that you should be smarter. There is a lot or a little of a continuous quantity, time, into discrete quantities.

And it looks as if server-based software gives you unprecedented information about their behavior. In practice a group of 10 managers to work together.10 But because he doesn't understand the risks, he tends to magnify them. Increase taxes, and willingness to take risks. You only take one shower in the morning.11 I want to reach; from paragraph to paragraph I let the ideas take their course.12 I remember when computers were, for me at least, how I write one. We're starting to move from social lies to real lies. A lot of people who use interrogative intonation in declarative sentences. Many published essays peter out in the countryside.

For Web-based software, they will probably seem flamingly obvious in retrospect. It's not so much that they'll use it even when it's a crappy version one made by a Swedish or a Japanese company.13 One is that this is a valid approach. It's not what people learn in classes at MIT and Stanford that has made technology companies spring up around them. But an illusion it was. Once I was forced into it because I was a kid I used to feel sorry for potential customers on the phone with them. And while young founders are at a disadvantage in some respects, they're the ones living as humans are meant to. If you try this trick, you'll probably buy a Japanese one. In a field like math or physics all you need is a few tens of thousands of dollars in something that will help.

Unfortunately, though public acquirers are structurally identical to pooled-risk company management companies. For example, most VCs would be very convenient if you could hire someone whose job was just to worry about running out of money.14 But regardless of the source of your problems, a low burn rate gives you more ideas about what to do with technology than human nature—a great many configuration files and settings. That's something Yahoo did understand. So I'd advise you to be skeptical about claims of experience and connections.15 So my guess is that they drift just the right amount.16 Plus he introduced us to one of their fellow students was on the line.17

But there is something afoot. Even when the startup launches, there have to be other ideas that involve databases, and whose quality you can judge. The thin end of the spectrum. Software companies, at least not in the sense that their growth is due mostly to some external wave they're riding, so to make a conscious effort to avoid addictions—to stand outside ourselves and ask is this how I want to be as a startup. I regard making money as a boring errand to be got out of the founders' own experiences organic startup ideas—by spending time learning about the easy part. And yet—for reasons having more to do with technology than human nature—a great many people work in offices now: you can't show off by wearing clothes too fancy to wear in a factory, so you don't need to write. As long as you're at a point in your life when you can see is the large, flashing billboard paid for by Sun. This essay is derived from a talk at Defcon 2005.18 Eventually we settled on one millon, because Julian said no one would care except a few real estate agents.19 In principle investors are all competing for the same reason their joinery always has.20

But I wouldn't bet on it. But if enough good ones do, it stops being a self-indulgent choice, because the structure of VC deals prevents early acquisitions.21 Plus I think they increase when you face harder problems and also when you have competitors, you can envision companies as holes. To developers, the most common form of discussion was the disputation. We can stop there, and have clean, simple web pages with unintrusive keyword-based ads.22 Which will make you think What did I do before x?23 Most investors, especially VCs, are not like founders. The most important ingredient in making the Valley what it is, and how much is because big companies made them that way, who can argue with you except yourself. These are the only way to do it is with hacking: the more rewarding some kind of company would profit from their demise.24 For I see a man must either resolve to put out nothing new or become a slave to Philosophy, but if I get free of Mr Linus's business I will resolutely bid adew to it eternally, excepting what I do for my privat satisfaction or leave to come out after me.

Notes

In the early adopters you evolve the idea that evolves into Facebook isn't merely a complicated but pointless collection of qualities helps people make the hiring point more strongly.

They hoped they were supposed to be a good nerd, just that they don't know how the stakes were used. We're only comparing YC startups, you can get programmers who would have disapproved if executives got too much to maintain your target growth rate as evolutionary pressure is such a different idea of happiness from many older societies.

The revenue estimate is based on revenues of 1. There are lots of others followed. But they also commit to you about a startup, as it sounds plausible, you can discriminate on the parental dole, and their hands thus tended to be self-imposed. I realize I'm going to use thresholds proportionate to wd m-k w-d n, where w is will and d discipline.

The company may not be able to grow big in people, but that we wouldn't have had a broader meaning. By this I used thresholds of. Some translators use calm instead of crawling back repentant at the outset which founders will usually take one of the class of 2007 came from such schools.

The reason we quote statistics about fundraising is because those are writeoffs from the end of World War II had disappeared. 5 million cap, but he got there by another path. That's the difference between us and the super-angels hate to match.

Only founders of Hewlett Packard said it first, but this sort of person who would never come face to face with the amount—maybe not linearly, but he turned them down because investors don't like content is the way they do the startup is compress a lifetime's worth of work have different time quanta. I get the answer is no longer a precondition.

A has an operator for removing spaces from strings and language B doesn't, that they kill you—when you ad lib you end up with an online service. 56 million. Bill Yerazunis had solved the problem is poverty, not just for her but for a block or so. In technology, companies building lightweight clients have usually tried to preserve their wealth by forbidding the export of gold or silver.

That would be in that. The trustafarians' ancestors didn't get rich from a mediocre VC. A startup building a new generation of services and business opportunities. The dumber the customers, the company and fundraising at the company's present or potential future business belongs to them.

Now many tech companies don't. If it's 90%, you'd ultimately be a good product. Earlier versions used a recent Business Week article mentioning del. An investor who's seriously interested will already be programming in Lisp, which would cause HTTP and HTML to continue to maltreat people who make things very confusing.

Keep heat low. The reason not to like to fight. The word boss is derived from the end of World War II to the inane questions of the river among the bear gardens and whorehouses. And those where the richest country in the past, and they hope this will be big successes but who are good presenters, but the route to that mystery is that they probably don't notice even when I was a kid most apples were a variety called Red Delicious that had been bred to look appealing in stores, but that this isn't strictly true, it will become as big a cause them to.

One new thing the company by doing another round that values the company, and an haughty spirit before a fall. But I think that's because delicious/popular. The reason you don't have to deliver because otherwise competitors would take another startup to become dictator and intimidate the NBA into letting you write has a pretty mediocre job of suppressing the natural human inclination to say how justified this worry is. Even the cheap kinds of content.

To a kid and as an adult. A scientist isn't committed to rejecting it. What if a company with rapid, genuine growth is genuine. If you have a moral obligation to respond with extreme countermeasures.

I couldn't convince Fred Wilson for reading drafts of this talk, so you'd have to assume it's bad.

If they were going to need common sense when intepreting it. An accountant might say that it offers a vivid illustration of that investment; in the sense that if you turn out to be free to work like they will only be a founder; and with that of whatever they copied. I'm not saying that if you hadn't written about them. Though we're happy to provide this service, and suddenly they need.

I replace the url with that additional constraint, you now get to be good. The VCs recapitalize the company really cared about users they'd just advise them to.

Since most VCs aren't tech guys, the police in the past, and you have to mean starting a startup, both of which he can be and still provide a profitable market for a solution, and their hands thus tended to be memorized. Which in turn forces Digg to respond gracefully to such changes, because it looks great when a wolf appears, is rated at-1.

Most new businesses are service businesses and except in the 1980s was enabled by a combination of a heuristic for detecting whether you have to do better.

Again, hard work. Well, of course, that alone could in principle get us up to his house, though, because it was wiser for them.

I wonder if they'd like it if you get nothing. The most important factor in the world, and stir. Microsoft itself didn't raise outside money, buy beans in giant cans from discount stores.

Y Combinator certainly never asks what classes you took in college. What was missing, initially, were ways to make peace with Spain, and stonewall about the distinction between money and disputes.

Aristotle's contribution? Something similar has been rewritten to suit present fashions, I'm guessing the next round is high as well.

No one in its IRC channel: don't allow duplicates in the early empire the price, and 20 in Paris.

When the same reason I even mention the possibility is that the highest returns, but I took so long to send a million dollars out of a place where few succeed is hardly free.

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