It was @captainwiley’s birthday a couple of days ago and to celebrate the joyful day the world gained such a wonderful and crazy person, I’ve written a fic. This is inspired by how @captainwiley and @artandteaandstuff got introduced to each other but with our lovely ship instead (the road is a bit bumpier because have you met Emma and Killian?) ♥
summary: A Google Docs AU where Emma and Killian both get asked to beta-read something of David’s and start anonymously bickering about every conceivable grammatical and lexical and any other feature of the English language in the Google Docs Comment section but what happens after David decides to intervene?
rating: T for some swearing
Major love to @ofshipsandswans for listening to me ramble ♥
(Let’s pretend that once Docs assigns you an animal it stays the same. Sorry for the mistakes, btw. Selina is not only amazing but also my beta)
She sat sunken in the soft leather couch, tucked in a corner with a blanket hiding everything from the neck down. Soft music sounded through the room, drifting to every nook chasing away the quiet, the eerie feeling that occasionally lingered in an empty apartment. Emma placed her palm on her face, fingers sliding into her hair as she tiredly rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t even nine yet, school hadn’t been particularly demanding as her early morning class got canceled and she got to sleep in, and still, exhaustion seemed to follow her every move and step. It didn’t help that the days were getting shorter, daylight becoming scarcer, any sign of warmth vanishing into clouds of air.
As tempting as it might be, she wasn’t going to go to bed at nine pm on a Friday. She just couldn’t. That was not an option. She was twenty-one, not seventy-one, for crying out loud. Though she did fit the description with her warm blanket, mug of hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon, and an episode of that soap opera her best friend and roomie Mary Margaret insisted on recording and that Emma secretly watched when she was alone in their apartment.
Mary Margaret was out on a date with Emma’s brother David, who basically had become a second roommate to Emma. She didn’t mind, however. She loved her brother dearly, ever since they met in middle school, they’d been two peas in a pod and after David’s mom—their mom— decided to adopt Emma, their bond only became stronger. Mary Margaret was thrown into the mix when Emma befriended her in high school and when she introduced them, it was—according to her brother and Mary Margaret, Emma was more skeptical about it all— love at first sight.
It was best that she stayed up until they returned. Emma knew Mary Margaret: dimmed lights and a shut bedroom door would lead to a discussion because she was concerned about Emma’s welfare and social life and so on. And if there was anything Emma could live without, it was the concerned mom speech. She already got her fair share of those from her actual mom, she didn’t need them from her sister-in-law as well.
The lock of the door clicked as the key was turned and Emma hastily grabbed the remote control to stop the episode. She threw the blanket off her and grabbed one of her books. When David and Mary Margaret walked in, slightly giggly and drunk on some expensive Italian wine, she seemed less the spitting image of a socially deprived person and more of that of an intellectual seeking diversion. Not that they would notice anyway, so focused on each other.
“Hey Ems,” her brother greeted her, wide smile on his face.
Oh, he was drunk. He absolutely never called her Ems.
“Hi, David.” Emma looked up, trying to keep herself from laughing. “Wow, it seemed like you two had a great night.”
“We did,” Mary Margaret replied. “Your brother is such a gentleman, Emma. He makes me swoon.” The way Mary Margaret stretched out the word made Emma cave, her laugh filling the apartment.
“Good that he does, Mary Margaret.” She put the book back down, wiping a tear caused by her moment of amusement away, before contently sighing. “Well, I am pretty tired so I’m going to turn in. Night, guys.”
“Night, Emma. We love you,” they said in sync. The alcohol clearly did not blur their supposed true love bond.
Emma snickered. “Love you too, lovebirds.”
The last thing she saw before she closed the door was her brother caressing Mary Margaret’s face while they lovingly gazed at each other and the last thing Emma thought before falling asleep was how she yearned for that kind of love as well.
“Morning,” David groaned as he emerged from his and Mary Margaret’s room, shutting the door quietly, most likely to grant his girlfriend a few additional moments of sleep.
Emma sipped her coffee with an amused smile while jumping off the stool next to their breakfast counter and grabbing an extra mug to provide David with a necessary kick of energy.
“Morning to you, too. How’s the hangover?”
David flashed her a grateful smile as he accepted Emma’s kind gesture and wrapped his hands around the warm mug.
“Bearable, actually. Mary Margaret forced me to chug something that seemed like a gallon of water so I’m sure that, once I properly wake up, I’ll be as fit as a fiddle again.”
“Good.” She wriggled back onto the chair and continued to munch on the Pop Tart she had chosen as breakfast. “I wasn’t looking forward to spending my Saturday with two grumpy zombies.”
Emma could see the effects of the coffee on David as his gaze became more open, more attentive and as the corners of his lips subtly began to rise.
“How is my lovely sister doing this morning, by the way,” he inquired after a moment, his cup almost empty already.
Narrowing her eyes, Emma took a sip again, watching David over the rim of her mug and trying to figure out why it suddenly seemed as if he was attempting to coax her into doing something she would not like. She knew that tone, had heard it far too often over the years.
After clearing her mouth, she decided to go for the direct approach. It was far too early to beat around the bush. “What do you want and/or need?” She asked, eyebrows shooting upwards.
“You remember that dissertation I’m writing to get my degree?”
She did remember what he was talking about since he had been fretting over the ten-thousand-word paper for months now and the deadline kept on creeping closer. It was important to her brother, if he got his criminology major, the chances of him getting hired as a police officer—a lifelong dream of his— would increase considerably. So, she had endured every freak out session and every lecture about the exact subject he had chosen because that was what siblings did. Once the time came for Emma to write hers, in social studies this time, she knew David would do the same for her.
“Yeah, it’s difficult to forget.” Emma nodded. “But what does that have to do with me?”
She stood up to clear her plate, halting by the trash can to clear some of the remaining crumbs and depositing it in the sink. Turning on her heel, she faced her brother again.
“I need you to work your magic.” David had an apologetic look upon him as he shrugged, his police-themed PJ’s moving along.
“Which is?” She encouraged him to be more specific, to tell her exactly what she needed to do to help him.
“Read it over, give me some feedback, correct the errors that are most definitely in there?” he spoke, his voice rising as if, besides the work he had written, he was now also second-guessing his request to her.
Emma didn’t consider herself a nitpicker, but she had an eye for details and an affinity towards the English language fed by countless stories read and countless tales originating from the depths of her mind. It was a mere hobby, nothing more than an escape when things got too much to handle and people became too demanding that had originated when she was still a foster kid. That did not change Emma’s devotion or attention to detail, however; if anything, it enhanced it.
She wasn’t a nitpicker but she was the kind of person that noticed when commas stood in the wrong place or when the author should have used whom. Numerous of David’s high school assignments had to pass Emma’s watchful gaze first before getting the green light to be handed in and Emma couldn’t understand why her brother was so hesitant about asking her help now. She loved to help him, time and time again.
“David,” she said, soft and reassuring. “Of course, I’ll do it, you’re my brother. I’ll happily correct whatever mistakes I find and give some constructive feedback.”
A joyful smile broke the surface of David’s worried expression. He approached, arms open to embrace her in a hug. Emma wanted to comment on how this was all a bit too much for a simple read-through but as she felt his hand cup the back of her head, she reconsidered, basking in the warm feeling and memories.
She had to search for the right moment to tackle David’s text. Late in the evening hardly ever worked because her mind was often too clouded with the information it was bombarded with throughout the day, her eyes too tired after staring at textbooks and screens for over six hours, and her fingers fast to make a mistake as they were slow to take commands after writing down seventeen pages of notes. Emma doubted either of those elements would ameliorate the text, if not even worsen.
About four days after David had asked her, Emma finally sat behind the small wooden desk in the corner of her room, opening her laptop and shoving the chair closer. She scoured their Messenger chat to find the link to a Google Docs he had sent her, Emma claiming it would be easier to comment and adjust things on there and David following her advice.
She drank from her mug of coffee, slightly burning her tongue and rubbing it to the edges of her teeth to get rid of the feeling. Softly humming along to her Spotify playlist, Emma saw the link transform into a site and the site slowly loading and supplying a so far six-thousand seven-hundred-word-essay. She could do this, this was what she did best.
As she began to read the introduction to get a general view of what criminological theory she most definitely would not understand the essay was about, she noticed something. Footprints. Steps of someone else who had taken the path she was about to embark on. The words flashed by as she rapidly scrolled down to see if the entire document had already been scrutinized by someone else. And indeed, it had. This “anonymous python” had consistently left feedback on what her brother had written, the blue boxes appearing every paragraph or so.
anonymous python: Effect is the noun, affect the verb
anonymous python: Maybe change this word to another one. You use it thrice in two sentences.
At the end of David’s every line, Emma’s eyes dashed to the margin to see what the other proofreader thought, if they had noticed the same things she had before adding her own. She considered every comment the anonymous python had made, nodding her head in agreement with the logical and just ones, and frowning while reading those that were pure nonsense. Before she knew, she was pressing the reply button to refute whatever claim this Python was making.
anonymous python: You should add a comma here, Dave. It will structure your sentence a bit more.
anonymous swan: Please ignore the anonymous python, David. A comma is useless here, put an em-dash instead.
After checking about a third of the document and losing herself in countering any- and everything that Python had said, Emma looked up at the arrows of her clock, awfully close to the time she was expected in class. In a rush, she locked her computer, chugged the remains of her coffee—a drop missing her mouth and running down her chin before her hand hastily wiped it away— stood up, snatched her bag from her bed and dashed away to her class.
She made it with one minute to spare.
The weariness engulfing her from head to toe, Emma collapsed on her bed, an unceremonious thud in her flannel sheets. The mattress needed to process the shock, the sudden additional weight and softly bobbed as a ship might’ve on the water. Her room hadn’t quite warmed up yet, so, to give her body the warmth it yearned for, she crawled under the covers. A sigh left her lips as she settled in her own little cocoon of warmth and peace. Not feeling up to do anything else, she was planning a nice evening of scrolling through every social media app known to mankind. Emma struggled to retrieve her phone out of her jeans’ pocket without letting the cold air hit her skin, wriggling around in her sheets and turning from left to right.
A small blinking light caught her attention and she paused the fight against her sheets and pocket. Her eyes turned into slits to be able to determine the source, which was her laptop, still standing on her desk. She forgot to turn it off, right. Just before she could take the decision to ignore it, to keep it like this until the next time she needed it, her brother’s voice appeared in her mind telling her that it was bad for her computer. He wasn’t even here right now and still, he was lecturing her. Grunting, Emma reluctantly lifted her sheets and let the shivers attack her body. Three steps were all it took to reach her desk. Her fingers hit the right combination of keys to unlock the device and she began the close all the tabs she had accumulated during her last browsing session. As she moved her mouse to the red box that would close David’s paper, a sentence caught her interest.
See new changes made by anonymous.
It certainly wasn’t David, or it would’ve said that he made the changes and she didn’t change anything since she last saved everything. It had to be them. The anonymous python. With a strange feeling, a mix of excitement and apprehension, swirling inside of her, Emma looked for the alterations that had been made while she was away.
anonymous python: Excuse me? I do have a degree in English literature, I think I know when a comma is necessary, thank you very much.
“Oh, we’re being snobby, are we?”
Emma snorted and rolled her eyes. So, Python was that kind of person. All indignant and offended when someone knew better and pointed out their mistakes. Also known as Emma’s least favorite kind of person.
anonymous swan: Well, they clearly failed to teach you the most basic of punctuation.
She was already sitting at her computer, reading the document, and the adrenaline had given her new energy, so she might as well continue to do so instead of mindlessly scrolling through social media and watching cat videos. That way she could claim to be productive even if she didn’t actually do anything for school.
Suddenly a blue box popped up on the top of her screen with the white depiction of a snake in it, signaling that the anonymous python had returned.
In a surge of panic, Emma shut the page down. Eyes wide and heart beating way faster than it ought to, she stared at her desktop image, hoping that they hadn’t seen her. It was one thing to anonymously bruise someone’s ego, a whole other thing to be in the same online room at the same time with that person, both painfully aware of what had been said.
It was time for a food break—or at least, that was what Emma told herself. She went in search of something to eat and came across a little message from Mary Margaret.
Good evening, Emma. You probably forgot but my archery class is tonight so I won’t be home ‘till late and David is staying at his own place. There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge for you to devour. Enjoy and see you tonight.
Times like these made Emma really appreciate her friend and her caring nature. Mary Margaret was sweet, so innocently and selflessly sweet. Emma had told Mary Margaret numerous times that she could also just send a text, seeing that it was indeed the twenty-first century but Mary Margaret persisted and unknowingly brought a smile to Emma’s face every time she found a yellow post-it stuck to the refrigerator, or their table, or her bedroom door.
Emma removed the spaghetti, placed it on a plate and stuck it into the microwave, drumming her fingers against the counter as she waited for her serving of warm food. The seconds ticked away before the machine made a releasing sound while announcing her food was ready.
Plate in hand, she returned to her room and, more importantly, her computer. Taking a deep breath and first a bite of the still too warm food, Emma unlocked her computer again, bracing herself for the response of her online…— of somebody.
Oddly enough, they hadn’t reacted to her obvious jab, so Emma felt her nerves settle, only to be replaced by raging fire as she saw what they had reacted on. Which was almost every comment of hers.
anonymous python: Wrong. Your formulation is even worse than Dave’s original one.
anonymous python: A semicolon? In this sentence? I think not.
Emma was fuming. The audacity of this person. She spent the next half hour alternating between arguing on every comment they made, proving why exactly she was right and angrily chewing on her food. Reading and beta-ing were what she was good at. She didn’t need some know-it-all pointing out all of her mistakes when they were, in fact, not. There was a reason David specifically asked for her help.
(She was ignoring the fact that David had clearly asked someone else as well.)
With more force than was necessary— and healthy for her computer— she shut her screen, in dire need of something to distract her, to lead her away from her place of absolute rage and vindication. It was Python’s right to comment on her remarks as she did the same on theirs but the big difference was that hers were correct and fair criticisms while theirs were just a whole load of crap set out to drive her up the wall.
Continuing to revise David’s paper wasn’t in the cards right now, so she left her desk and decided she’d watch some more of that soap opera. It was the perfect opportunity seeing that Mary Margaret wasn’t getting home until late. As the title track played, Emma chose to be the bigger person and to not get carried away in this feud that had somehow unleashed. She was a responsible and smart adult and was better than this.
“Son of a bitch,” Emma yelled, fingers typing at inhuman speed. “I’ll show you just how fucking American I am.”
Emma woke up to the jingling sound of a notification and groaned, burrowing her head deeper into her pillow. She’d created this rule for herself that once she woke up, she could not go back to sleep so as her hand sloppily hunted for her phone, she prayed to Zeus that the time would be some ungodly hour so she could go back to sleep.
Tapping her code, Emma saw what had caused her phone to chime and take over the role of her alarm clock.
David Nolan created this group chat. You, David Nolan and Killian Jones are a part of it.
Why would her brother create a group chat when they already had one? And who was this Killian Jones?
It was most likely by accident, a butt-dial sort of incident, though Emma failed to see how it was possible to add two random people who had never interacted to a group. His butt must’ve been oddly specific. Mental images flashed by her closed eyelids, turning her expression into a grimace. Thinking about her brother’s butt was a very bad idea. She should probably stop and focus on the overall situation. David hadn’t sent any additional messages which almost confirmed Emma’s suspicion of it being an accident.
The white bubble appeared instantaneously and Emma awaited what her brother had to say.
David Nolan: A request to the both of you to stop bickering in the comment section of my paper. Your like little children.
The two of them? Was this mysterious Killian Jones the anonymous python that plagued David’s essay? She reread the message to assure she wasn’t imagining things but that was the message that his text contained. And a mistake.
Killian Jones: Dave, *you’re
They’d responded at the exact same time and his message was all the confirmation she required. Oh, he was it, alright. Python felt the insistent need to call David Dave on every other comment and it was yet another thing about him that annoyed her and here he–Killian Jones–was using the exact same nickname with the exact same casual air that made Emma roll her eyes every single time. Why did people feel the need to nickname someone else and then only use their nickname? Dave this, Dave that. Emma was quite frankly annoyed. Even more than she already was.
David Nolan: You got my point, so quit it.
David Nolan: Though I am eternally grateful to you both for doing this. Just stop bickering.
The moment Killian had seen the message, Emma could feel him staring at her, assessing her. Not in the creepy way of course, but he wasn’t replying, nor was she, neither of them willing to acknowledge each other now they knew who exactly was hiding behind those pseudonyms. It felt like an online stare down to see who would crack first.
Even though she wanted to be strong, to show this Killian Jones just how stubborn she could be, her brother was still online, awaiting an answer, and what he was asking her—them— was only fair. Emma sighed and typed out a short answer before pressing send.
“ Mary Margaret?” Emma said, her right hand holding a wooden spoon as she stirred a pot filled with vegetables and made sure their dinner wouldn’t burn.
“Yes?” her friend answered, walking around their dinner table and stretching her arms to set the plate and glass she was holding on the other side.
“Do you know a Killian Jones?” Her eyes focused on the orange of the carrots and the green of the broccoli.
Because he was incredibly annoying and a smartass and because Emma had discovered that he was also breathtakingly gorgeous after clicking on his Facebook profile. But she still hated him, let that be clear.
Mary Margaret inspected her work, quickly checking off a list of things they would need for dinner and when she concluded everything was present, she rearranged her dark pixie cut and looked up to Emma, who avoided her gaze and went on with stirring with the utmost concentration.
“Doesn’t matter, just answer the question, please,” she muttered.
There was a silence but Emma didn’t dare to turn around to see what was taking Mary Margaret so long before answering. She was just about certain what kind of look Mary Margaret’s expression would bear.
“I know him,” Mary Margaret finally gave in. “He’s one of David’s good friends. Killian is very nice, slightly full of himself but he has a heart of gold.”
Even though Mary Margaret appeared to be convinced of her view on Killian Jones, Emma couldn’t accept it. Mary Margaret saw the good in everyone even when there wasn’t any good to be found. She would give a speech about how everyone was redeemable and that one only needed to hope, so her opinion wasn’t reliable.
“I think you’re depreciating how full he is of himself because he seems pretty egocentric to me.”
And even that was an understatement.
Emma lifted her eyebrow, having found her confidence again and finally facing her friend.
“Why are you asking me this if you’ve met him?” Mary Margaret’s fair skin creased as she frowned.
Extinguishing the fire, Emma removed the vegetables and placed them on the table, turning around to grab the other components of their dinner.
“We haven’t met in real life,” she explained, “We’ve only interacted via Google Docs.”
“And it did not go well?” Mary Margaret assumed correctly.
Thinking back to what had been said, she shook her head, blonde locks slightly swaying along. “Not well” was an understatement too.
“To summarize: we fought incessantly and David made us promise we would call a truce.”
They both settled in their opposite chairs, Emma serving herself and getting ready to eat until she noticed that Mary Margaret hadn’t taken any food yet and was instead staring at her with a confused look.
“I can’t say that this doesn’t surprise me,” she spoke, drawing her eyebrows together anew. “I always thought you two would hit it off. Maybe you should you get to know each other a bit better, you do have some things in common.”
Getting to know him better was just about the last thing Emma wanted to do. It could only end up being a disaster.
“Well, it’s never going to happen. I hate Killian Jones.”
She visibly ended the discussion by taking a large bite of her food, overacting the whole thing to make her message clears but that didn’t stop Mary Margaret from making one last comment that did absolutely nothing to reassure her.
anonymous python: For goodness’ sake, Swan, he used the wrong tense here. How did you not see that?
anonymous swan: It’s creative license, Jones. It can work. Also, we’re not supposed to bicker and it’s Emma.
anonymous python: We aren’t bickering if you just agree that creative license in a dissertation is bollocks, Swan.
anonymous swan: EMMA. And no can do, sir. I suppose we are bickering.
anonymous swan: Jones, I am begging you. Please stop changing everything to British spelling. We’re in America. Adjust.
anonymous python: Normally I prefer to do more enjoyable activities with a woman begging me, but you’ve left me no choice. Care to show me?
David Nolan: Jones, stop hitting on my sister. And what did I tell you about bickering?
anonymous python: We’re just having a bit of fun, David.
David Nolan: Then have fun somewhere else than my dissertation.
anonymous python: You heard him, Swan. Let’s have fun somewhere else. Drinks on me tonight, The Merry Men, 9 pm.
David Nolan: No, you’re not doing that.
anonymous python: Don’t fret, Dave. You can join too.
She shouldn’t actually go, should she? He must’ve been joking, daring her to do something only to not show up to make fun of her. But why would he invite David as well? He wouldn’t do that to his friend, would he? Even though Emma did not hold him in any high regard, he did seem like a good friend to David. So, his proposal must’ve been genuine.
That didn’t help with sorting out her thoughts, it only gave her more questions, more doubts and fears. One thing, however, was blatantly clear.
Killian Jones confused her.
(Or so she told herself.)
The neon letters of the bar flickered against the inky night, a lighthouse in the dark to guide her ashore. She hadn’t figured out yet if it was a trap leading her to the cliffs or not.
Emma inhaled, the cold air almost painfully filling her lungs and shut her eyes. She hadn’t entered, hadn’t met him for real, hadn’t gotten drunk and she was already regretting this.
A decision had to be made. Either to enter or to go home. The internal debate with herself couldn’t last the entire evening or she would freeze. Wrapping her red leather jacket a bit tighter around herself, she shivered. Go inside or go home. There was a warm bar right in front of her and if she chose to go home, she would have to wait for a cab in the cold.
In the end, the prospect of feeling her fingers again won as Emma pushed the heavy wooden door and entered the bar. The heat warmed her skin and she knew she had made the right choice.
Her eyes roamed the room as she searched for her brother’s sandy colored hair, but to no avail.
“And here I thought you wouldn’t show.” Emma was startled by the voice suddenly appearing to her right. And by the accent. It didn’t make it difficult to guess who it belonged to despite the fact they had never spoken. She felt her heart speed up as she faced the source. “Swan.” He smirked, a cheeky and cocky thing that told Emma she had made the wrong choice. “Pleased to finally meet you.”
His hair was a chaos of black, his eyes a sea of blue. And if the dim bar light did not mislead her, his beard a haze of red. No amount of Facebook profile pictures could’ve prepared Emma for this.
“You know my name is Emma.” She stared at him with a raised eyebrow, the picture of not amused and unimpressed. Or so she hoped.
Jones laughed, a resonant thing, while pushing up the sleeves of his light blue shirt which totally did not make him ten times more attractive.
“I do, but I like Swan.” He shrugged. “It suits you.”
“And why is that?” she said, the suspicion coloring her voice.
Their eyes met and even though Emma wanted to look away, she couldn’t; the connection was too strong to sever. He didn’t move either, or blink, or answer the question she’d asked him.
“Feisty and beautiful.” was his reply after a minute or so. Perhaps it was more a couple of seconds. She had no idea. It was like the hard drive of her brain had been deleted and she’d forgotten how to do the most basic of things. Like breathing. Emma took a deep breath through her nose as she shook herself out of the trance. “I must say that your profile picture does not do you justice,” Jones continued.
Emma is surprised her eyes don’t roll out of her skull but the heat rises to her cheeks, nevertheless.
“Wow.” Emma scoffed. “It’s a good thing that you’re buying because I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to handle this.” Her hand drew a circle around his silhouette in the air.
“Say no more,” he smirked and led her to two empty bar chairs.
“Jane Austen? That’s your favorite author?” she almost shouted in disbelief. Emma had to stop herself from laughing. “Is it because you see yourself as a Mr. Knightley? I hate to break it to you, you’re not. At most a Mr. Elton.”
“I beg your pardon?” He looked genuinely affronted but Emma didn’t know if it was because she was mocking his choice of favorite author or because she was comparing him to one of the worst characters in Emma. “What’s wrong with Jane Austen, she quite frankly wrote terrific books. Who’s your favorite author, may I ask?” he challenged her.
It didn’t take Emma long to come up with a name.
“Hemingway,” she said before taking a swig from her bottle of beer and contently nodding as she thought about it again.
Jones tilted his head and quietly hummed as he considered her answer.
“Very good author,” he finally reacted and Emma was about to start beaming with pride when he continued to speak, “but definitely not worthy of the honor of being your favorite. You need to pick someone who deserves it, with whom you would love to be friends. I for one would love to be friends with Jane Austen. Hemingway… not so much.”
“What?” She tried to find some sign of ridicule or humor but found none. He was being completely honest. And she did not agree in the slightest. “That’s bullshit. I don’t need to like Hemingway as a person to like him as an author.”
“But who he is as a person is reflected in his books. Trust me, I have a degree in literature.”
“Ugh, this again,” she complained and rolled her eyes, a very common occurrence when she was in the company of Killian Jones, it would seem.
“It’s the truth. Oh no!” he suddenly shouted.
Emma almost fell off her bar stool, her hand flying up to her chest in shock and barely missing her bottle of beer on the counter. She looked around, eyes frantically searching for something amiss before they landed on Jones again who sat calmly on his stool, amusedly watching her.
“We’re bickering, Swan,” he announced. “David would disapprove.”
Emma clenched her jaw in anger while she attempted to get her heartbeat back to normal.
“You just scared the shit out of me. Where is David by the way?
Jones raised his shoulders, showing that he did not know either what was keeping her brother. Bent on finding out why he hadn’t shown up in the last hour, she fished her phone out of pocket and dialed David’s number. The bar and the area surrounding it kept on getting busier, so as the dial tone rung in Emma’s ears, she left Jones there and went in search of a place where she would be able to hear what David’s most likely lame excuse for running late would be. The continuous ring stopped with a rustle, telling her he had finally picked up.
“Hey, it’s me. Where are you?” She settled against a brick wall in some hallway not frequented by other people.
“Um.” Emma narrowed her eyes as David struggled to get a uniform answer out. This was suspicious. “I can’t make it.”
“Yeah, sorry, Emma. I have to go.”
And abruptly she was met with the end of the call and silence. Nothing in that call seemed like her brother. The last-minute cancelling—could you even call it that if he was supposed to be here an hour ago— the general vagueness, the abrupt end of the call. Odd. Very odd.
Thinking about it had her frowning as she walked back to the spots Jones and she occupied earlier and that he was still protecting against predators
“Is everything okay?” His eyes showed concern for her.
“Yeah,” Emma reassured him, smiling to get rid of the scowl on her face. “David is not coming.”
Grabbing her deserted bottle of probably lukewarm beer, Emma climbed back onto the stool.
“I don’t really mind if I’m being honest. I’m quite enjoying myself with the present company.”
Were they sitting closer than before? They must be. Emma wasn’t able to discern his distinctive smell before, nor could she see the small scar on his right cheek or how long his eyelashes were. It almost managed to take her breath away.
“I should probably go home,” she whispered.
“Come on, Swan, don’t let a man drink alone.” She felt his gaze trace her face as he pleaded with her, both verbally and physically.
They stared at one another again and for a split second, Emma was certain they were going to kiss. He was going to lean in or she was and their lips would meet and she’d be kissing Killian Jones. The other people around them would disappear as they focused on each other and how their tongues would interact and time would stop as they pulled and pushed, fighting for control and the upper hand. She would moan, he would groan, the feeling so satisfying and it would definitely be mind-blowing. She would instantly regret it.
“I have to go,” she said weakly. “I have an early class tomorrow.”
It was a shit excuse and they both knew it.
“So?” A chirpy voice behind Emma spoke. At this hour, there was only one person in this apartment that scattered chirpiness: Mary Margaret. “How was your date with Killian?”
How she reminded Emma of how her mom behaved when she went on her first date. Way too nosy and excited about the whole ordeal.
“It wasn’t a date,” Emma reminded her friend. “David was supposed to show up too but he bailed on me.”
Which still confused her. Her brother, who had gone to great lengths to avoid that Jones spent time with her, was suddenly okay with leaving them alone at night, with alcohol involved? It seemed awfully out of character for David. He considered himself her savior, the big brother that had to keep all harm away from his little sister. Killian Jones was far from being harmless and David was aware of that.
“You know?” Emma turned her head, suspiciously eyeing her sister-in-law. If there was one person that could make David not act like himself…
“I might be the reason why?” Mary Margaret grimaced and confirmed Emma’s suspicion.
“Mary Margaret!” came out as a shout. Emma didn’t even try to hide her displeasure.
Of course, she meddled. After her comment from before about how she thought they should get to know each other, Emma could not be surprised that she made sure that they did. She couldn’t be surprised but she could be disgruntled.
“Sorry.” Her hands went up as a defense mechanism. She didn’t seem sorry at all, making it all so much worse. “But, how was it?”
Emma let her change the subject because deep down she’d been wanting to discuss it with someone. She hadn’t rightly figured out what exactly it was she wanted to discuss but she knew she needed to verbalize it, even if it was only an attempt to. Killian Jones did things to her, things she couldn’t wrap her mind around, things that were all over the place as if they swung from left to right, from one opposite to the other and she was stuck watching it all take place.
“He’s … urgh.” It was both a sigh and a grunt at the same time and the best thing she could think of to describe her evening.
“Emma Nolan at loss for words, I didn’t think I would live to see this day.
“I’m not at loss for words I can give you a million words to describe Killian Jones. Aggravating for instance. What else?” She bit her lip in thought, trying to prove she hadn’t lost any of her magic powers. “Oh!” She raised her finger a bit too excitedly as another word came to mind. “He’s also pedantic, conceited and most of the time very…”
“Distracting?” Mary Margaret prompted with a look of compassion.
Emma let her shoulders sag, her whole body following as she dropped herself on their couch. It took a lot of energy to pretend. “Very,” she faintly admitted, hair strewn across the leather and eyes glued to the ceiling.
She felt her legs being lifted as Mary Margaret made room for her to sit on the couch too.
“Emma, there is nothing wrong with asking him to hang out again,” she assured her, a squeeze following meant to emphasize her words but Emma shook her head disagreeing. Mary Margaret couldn’t know that for certain, she lived in this brightly colored fairytale world where everything went great and everyone was happy and got their Happily Ever After. Emma didn’t believe in all of that. This thing with Jones wouldn’t lead to that if they—she— acted on it. She didn’t know where it would lead her and that was why she wouldn’t dare to take the plunge. Staying safely ashore was far safer than risking to drown.
“And grant him the opportunity to gloat at every given moment?” She sat back up, trying to shake off the conflicting feeling and immersing herself back into her earlier mindset. The mindset from when Jones was just still anonymous python and she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Maybe Mary Margaret would believe the act she was putting on. “No, thank you. I need to stay as far away from Killian Jones as possible.”
“Swan?” Emma froze, her hand still reaching out for the box of hot chocolate mix and her eyes shutting as she winced while hearing the nickname only one person in the whole world called her. Just her luck that that one person was also the one she was avoiding with might and main. But apparently, she couldn’t even go to the supermarket in peace. Maybe if she didn’t move, continued to stand there with her hand in the air, he wouldn’t approach her? Perhaps he would just walk by with an acknowledging nod and she would go about her day without having to face Killian Jones after she very obviously stood him up two weeks ago. Who was she kidding, the universe wasn’t kind enough to grant her that gesture. “What a lovely coincidence.”
Taking a breath, she turned around, a neutral expression on her features instead of the alarmed one they bore.
“Jones,” she curtly addressed him.
He was wearing a dark burgundy sweater, a pair of dark jeans and a warm coat over it to protect him from the outside temperatures; his hair was still a controlled mess and his cheeks slightly rosy due to the cold but what caught Emma’s attention the most was the smile that did not waver from his face.
“I’m happy I’m running into you.”
Emma had noticed that. She needed to be strong, however, to not get distracted by the way his eyes crinkled.
“Why exactly is that?” Her brow skeptically furrowed.
He moved his shopping basket to his left arm to take a step closer to her. Her body wanted to back away but the rack with hot chocolate mixes was in the way. The distance between them had declined so much that, because of their height difference, Emma was now forced to look up to look him in the eye.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something but I didn’t want to do it via Messenger.”
There was a foreboding silence as they watched each other. He wouldn’t dare. She had just gone through two weeks of agony and he wasn’t about to reset her whole process by saying what she thought he was going to say. He couldn’t.
“I wrote an essay for an academic publication-” Emma felt her chest deflate as she let the air out of her lungs in relief. He wasn’t. She mentally thanked Zeus. “-and I was wondering if you could take a look at it?”
“Take a look?” Emma repeated harshly. “Why?” She didn’t give him any time to reply and answered her own question, “To boost your ego? You know what, I think I’m gonna pass. Hey, I have an idea. Maybe you should ask one of your flings, I’m certain they’d love to have the scoop of reading the essay of the prodigal Killian Jones.” To finish her statement, she added a sly smirk— though it was more of a sneer.
They bantered and jabbed, all with the same air of sarcasm and mockery, this was what they did. But why did he appear so defeated, then? So sad? He wasn’t supposed to; he was to supposed to counter with his equally clever remark, another battle in their never-ending war.
“Emma, please, would you read it,” he begged. It wasn’t the way he said it but what that caught her off guard. He’d never called her Emma before. Never, not even once. He purposely and stubbornly refused to. So, this was dead serious. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything in return. I just need a second set of eyes.”
The desperation drenched his words and Emma could feel her resolution of staying detached fall apart, piece by piece.
“Okay,” she said, before thinking about what she was doing. Her heart clenched at the sight of his distressing disposition and wanted to banish it once and for all. She was pretty sure it would do everything in its power never to see that look again. “You can send me the file. I have to go now but I’ll take a look tonight.”
“Thank you so much, Swan.” He managed to smile a small smile. “You’ve earned my eternal gratitude.
She had no idea what to with that.
Not even five minutes later, her phone chirped.
Killian Jones has sent you a friendship request.
Sighing, Emma clicked accept. It was just a Facebook friendship, she was aware, but still, it was more. She’d agreed to help like a friend would. They suddenly became friends instead of fluctuating in the grey zone of enemies-but-not-really. It felt weird to enter this new territory. To have Killian Jones as a friend while she spent so much time being annoyed by him and far too much time with him residing in the back of her mind.
Killian Jones: Thanks again for doing this, Swan.
Emma Nolan: No problem. So, what do you want me to do precisely? Spelling, grammar, anything else?
Killian Jones: Well, spelling and grammar should be on point, but it can’t hurt to double check. It’s mainly the message, however. Do you get what I’m saying? Am I not repeating myself? Is there a clear structure? etc. I’ve read it so many times now that I’m second guessing every word and phrasing.
Emma Nolan: I can do that. I’ll read it as soon as I can.
Killian Jones: Be kind, Swan.
Emma Nolan: Eh. I’ll see how good this is before making any promises.
It wasn’t just good, it was incredible. Written with passion and intelligence. He incorporated humor in an academic essay and managed to get away with it. He drew her in from the very first sentence and kept her attention for the whole thirteen pages, the speed with which she was reading only increasing so she could see what else he had written. Fuck, he was talented. And she now had to admit it to him.
anonymous swan: I would add em-dashes here just to clarify the structure of your sentence.
anonymous swan: Good metaphor, I’d go even further with it. Compare more to it, the reader won’t mind one bit
anonymous swan: I thought you said creative license in academic essays was “bollocks”? Someone isn’t being consistent.
Killian Jones: I was expecting you to be more critical
Emma Nolan: So was I, but there was nothing to be critical about. It was really good, surprisingly enough.
Killian Jones: You think so?
Emma Nolan: I do. Well done, Jones.
Killian Jones: Swan! Guess what!
Killian Jones: Because of my essay, I got nominated for the Newcomer of the Year award!!
Emma Nolan: Wow, Impressive! Congratulations!
Killian Jones: Thank you! Apparently, they attempted to reach out to me as soon as it got published, but they got my contact information wrong. The award ceremony is tonight and I thought I’d ask you to come along as a thank you.
Emma Nolan: Jones, I’ve already told you that I did absolutely nothing, stop trying to thank me.
Emma Nolan: Besides, fancy award ceremonies and I don’t mix. I’m going to skip. But have fun!
“Have you heard the news?”
Emma startled as her brother barged into her room without knocking, without so much as a word to warn her of his entrance. In confusion, she took out her earbud, the white pod still blasting her playlist of study music, and silently asked him what he was doing with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.
“Have you heard?” he repeated, his voice insisting.
Slamming her book shut and pulling out her other earbud, aware of how she would not be able to do any studying when he was interrogating her in her room’s door opening, she turned to him, begrudgingly giving him her full and prompt attention.
“Heard what, David?” The annoyance was obvious in how she almost spit the words out.
“Killian’s essay got nominated for some prize.”
“I know. Good for him. I already congratulated him.” She failed to see why David had to kick down her door and announce it, interrupting her sacred reversion time. She was finally being productive.
“That’s all?” he asked, disappointed about something Emma couldn’t figure out.
“Yeah,” she stretched out the word, watching him. “I was invited to come along but I passed. What else do you want me to say?
“Emma!” She was definitely missing something to understand this whole situation. “He asked you out and you said no!”
David provided her with the missing information, but she was wrong, it did not help whatsoever to understand.
“What? I said he didn’t need to thank me with some fancy dinner.” Her voice rose in pitch as she slowly began to comprehend what was going on and tried to defend herself. She was innocent.
“Knowing Killian, he took it as a rejection.”
“No, he didn’t,” Emma was convincing herself more than David at this point. “What are you talking about?”
David grabbed his phone, ceremoniously cleared his throat and started reading, “5:21 pm: “Mate, do you think it’s a good idea to ask your sister to join me? But like on an official date,”” he horrendously copied Jones’ typical lilt. “And then just now, 7:57 pm: “Dave, I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried so many times, but I think she’s just not interested. I should give up. Anyways, I have to go. I have a ceremony to attend.””
Her brother was awaiting a reaction but Emma was right there with him, no idea how or what she should react. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to give up. So, all this time spent talking and bickering, that was him trying?
“What happened to him being this suave ladies’ man?”
“Do you really believe that’s who he is? Or even was?” His blue eyes were solemn as he questioned her opinion of his friend. She could see it there, the close bond the two of them had, the way David wanted to protect Killian. Perhaps the reason he never introduced Emma to him wasn’t because he wanted to protect her, but because he wanted to secure his best friend’s fragile heart.
“No,” she answered, head and eyes cast downwards in shame. “Okay, but what do you want me to do about it?”
The look he gave her didn’t leave a lot to the imagination and if it wasn’t quite clear yet, his arms crossing in front of his chest did tell her what he wanted her to do.
“When did you become such a fan of Jones and me together?”
His stern gaze and posture softened again as he thought of an answer which led Emma to think that the answer would be something she wasn’t ready for yet.
“Since I saw how much you’ve both changed since you met one another.” He stepped closer and went to sit on a corner of her desk. “Mary Margaret had to open my eyes but once seen, it could not be unseen. I didn’t completely realize how much you two were talking.”
“About your dissertation,” Emma clarified.
David looked down at her, not a trace of pressure or implication. Only a simple question with no underlying meaning; he was giving her the freedom to answer as she pleased. “Are you sure about that?”
They weren’t only talking about his dissertation. Every conversation might’ve started that way but they slowly but surely drifted to another topic, time and time again. She’d gotten to know a lot about him over the past few weeks she’d considered him a friend, and he about her, more than she cared to admit.
She shut her eyelids and shook her head. Once she reopened them, David sympathetically watched her. The hairs on her body stood upright with the realization that she wanted to try too. Finally, she had gotten ready to risk it, to give him a chance. But Killian told David he was done trying. Fuck.
“Now go.” David shook her out of her contemplation.
“What?” Emma replied in confusion.
“To the ceremony.” David grabbed her arms and helping her out of her chair. “You might still make it on time.”
She had only just come to the realization that she liked him and she already supposed to go and tell him? Oh no, she could not do that. Emma needed at least another couple of days or so to accept it all, and then visit him on her own terms, and then maybe bring up the topic. This was going way too fast.
“David, I can’t just barge in!”
What would it look like? Her swinging open the doors of a black and tie event in her sweatpants and oversized sweater, hair a mess—and not the good kind like Jones’— out of breath and sweating, disrupting some important person holding a speech and all eyes flying over to her just to say that she liked Killian Jones enough to want to date him. Emma’s worst nightmare, that was what it looked like.
“Yes, you can!” he disagreed, pushing her out of the room.
“Why are we yelling?” Mary Margaret appeared in the hallway and joined the conversation.
Before Emma could turn around and answer her question, placating Mary Margaret and downplaying everything to avoid her interference, David took the opportunity to recruit her onto his side.
“Emma is going to Killian’s ceremony to tell him she likes him.”
Waving her hands, she attempted to transfer the message that that wasn’t what they were doing. Everyone needed to calm the fuck down. David needed to stop pushing her, both physically and emotionally; Mary Margaret needed to stop looking at her with that sparkle of hope in her green eyes; and Emma needed the space to breathe and not freak out about everyone knowing she liked Jones.
“Oh my god!” Mary Margaret joined the yelling and simultaneously did so with Emma.
Her head was starting to hurt and to relieve the pain, Emma began to rub her temples with the tips of her fingers.
Mary Margaret came closer and tenderly placed her hands on both of Emma’s shoulders.
“Emma, you should,” she advised, bringing the yelling to an end with her soft voice. “It would be so very romantic.”
David came to stand right next to her, nodding and echoing what his girlfriend had said, yet again a reappearance of their trademarked true love bond.
“Why are you two like this?” Emma inquired as a last refusal, no idea what she was supposed to do right now. She could feel those two sets of eyes staring at her and pulling her over that line, convincing her, regardless how hard she might be against the idea.
“Emma.” She looked up at her brother and sister-in-law, who were standing awfully close to her in a tiny hallway. “Do you like Killian?”
Mary Margaret smirked, an unsettling sight because she was not the type of person that smirked. Emma knew that it was decided. They were going.
“Then put on that pretty dress in your closet—you know that soft pink one— and go to the ceremony. I’ll drive.”
Emma supposed it was time to do some grand romantic gesture of her own. Ugh.
She slipped into the dark room, her dress swishing against her bare legs, and softly closed the door behind her. Scanning the room, she went in search of him and after some squinting, she could spot him in the front row. He looked an awful lot like the day she ran into him at the supermarket, nervous and afraid, with as only difference the suit he was wearing instead of his woolly sweater.
“To end our evening, we would like to announce our Newcomer of the Year,” the slightly balding man on the stage announced. Emma smiled, she had made it just in time. “The winner of this prize is a young, up-and-coming author. After recently having graduated in the studies of English Literature–”
And never shutting up about the fact that he did, Emma thought.
“–our laureate received acclaim for his dissertation and he managed to prove again with his recently written essay that this was all due to his talent and dedication. We are very pleased to announce that this year’s winner is Mr. Killian Jones.”
She clapped and whooped as she saw him walk towards the stage with a brilliant smile, pride swelling and spreading in her chest. He truly deserved this.
Killian reached the microphone and accepted the little statue, giving the host a handshake and looking at the bronze prize in awe.
“Thank you very much. I cannot properly express what it means to have your support. Writing and reading have been passions of mine ever since I was a young lad and to take this path was, therefore, a logical option I’ve not once regretted. Me standing here today would not be possible without my brother and mother who read countless stories until their voices went hoarse, without the amazing friends I have, and without the incredible people who read and gave feedback when the doubt grew too large and to whom I’m eternally grateful. So, thank you. I will treasure this moment forever.”
His speech was met with loud applause and Killian left the stage again, still shaking his head in disbelief. She was about to surprise him again. Waiting in a corner of the room until the mass of people wanting to congratulate him had dispersed and he was alone again, Emma left the shadows and walked over to Killian, who was admiring his prize yet again.
“I believe congratulations are in order. Newcomer of the Year, well done.”
Killian’s eyes left the trophy and moved to her, wide and blinking to see if this was real.
“Swan,” he breathed. “You’re here.”
She shrugged. “I decided that I might try one of these fancy award ceremonies.” Jones beamed as she leaned in. “I particularly liked your speech. Tell me, are there a lot of incredible people that read your text? Or was it just me?”
“Just you, Swan. You are more than enough.”
Fuck these stupid fancy award ceremonies for not being an appropriate place to attack him with her mouth.
“Are you nervous?” she asked, running her hands through his dark locks, making them look just right. After taking a small step back and nodding approvingly, her hand slid down, settling on his cheek and caressing the soft skin there.
“Why would I be nervous?” His blue eyes looked up and betrayed that his confidence was all just an act.
Which Emma already knew, of course. She knew how he reacted to publishing his own work, to letting people he didn’t know and trust read the things he had worked on for weeks, months and even years sometimes.
“Because I know you and you’re publishing something that’s a bit bigger than just an essay in a magazine this time.” Emma’s eyebrows rose and Killian let out a sigh.
“Yeah,” he finally admitted, covering her hand with his own. “I’m bloody nervous.”
A smile crept on her face and she curled her free arm around his, pulling him closer to her to whisper a confession in his ear.
“I was waiting until you would say that.”
“Were you?” he questioned, tilting his head and lifting one expressive eyebrow.
Moving her head up and down, Emma confirmed. “So I could do this–” Her lips gently brushed his, an innocent thing, but it wasn’t about passion right now. It was about calming him and his nerves down and kissing her almost always seemed to have that effect. “– and tell you that your book is amazing and that everyone is going to love it. It’s the best thing you’ve ever written, Killian. And it can’t hurt that you had the world’s best beta-reader who also happens to be your lovely wife.” She winked, earning a laugh from Killian. “I’ve finally picked a favorite author that deserves it and that I love ” The words carried the memory of their very first date— first according to Killian, Emma wasn’t really convinced of that— and managed to eradicate the last remnants of stress inside of Killian as his hand stopped trembling and his eyes only contained love.
“You’re brilliant, you know that, right?” He cradled her cheeks before letting their foreheads touch.
“And you’ll do great, you know that, right?” she whispered back with closed eyes, reveling in the moment.
She felt his lips on hers again and kissed back, the sensation still making her feel lightheaded as it had when they first kissed on the parking lot of the venue Killian had won his first award.
He winked one final time at her before walking out on stage, a thunderous applause welcoming him, and Emma left the backstage to join the audience.
“Hello everyone, welcome and thank you for being at this reading,” Killian greeted his fans. “I’ll be reading the first couple of chapters and afterwards, you can get your copy signed if you’d like.”
The book on the stand was opened and Killian began to read.
“This book—and all of its em-dashes— is dedicated to the anonymous swan.”
A/N: This fic—and all of its em-dashes— is dedicated to the notorious nonnie
