His breath fanned across her cheeks, face turned low conspiratorially, and gaze muddled where the light caught the tear sitting in his eyelashes. He slashed it away.
“I hate this. I hate this, I’m sorry,” he sighed.
Julie looked away from him and over to the sliver of the green room visible through the propped-open door. Every few seconds, the blur of Alex’s pink hoodie would pass in and out of view from his pacing. She hoped someone would hug him soon. He did better with a long, firm hug when he was anxious.
Reggie gave good hugs, her mind supplied.
I could go for a hug, her mind whispered.
“I just… I think you needed to know all the facts, you know? Uh.” He turned his body so that his shoulder rested on the wall, crossed his arms, and hunched into the posture. “And it’s not fair, Jules, I get it, okay? I debated even saying anything, but Luke wasn’t gonna say anything about it and that seemed… really unfair. Like, to all of us, but even to you.”
She nodded. A kind of numbness had spread down to her fingers, a frigid cold. She couldn’t move. He was right to tell her, probably. Maybe. Why did the right thing have such a sting to it?
“Can I… what’re you thinking?”
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. Shrugged. Tried to remember if she’d blinked since this conversation took a turn for the miserable. Had she breathed?
“Do you, uh, d’you need a hug? Or… I can leave? Give you a sec to… think?”
She didn’t remember answering him at all but the next thing she saw was his red suspenders—the only thing visible in the dim lights of the backstage hallway—as he scurried back to the green room where the rest of the band was preparing to go on.
To play in front of how many execs? To take the step that had launched how many bands into legendary status? To snag a manager, sign a contract, play a sold-out world tour.
She was only just getting her fingers to move again, loosened from the grip of her grief-induced rigor mortis and flitting across the keyboard. She hardly had the nerve to play the school dance a few weeks ago and that with the help of the boys. World tour? Stardom? No, they knew she wasn’t there yet.
But they were. Wasn’t that the point?
She pushed up from the wall, weighing in at a million pounds, and waited for the churning in her gut to pass. Oh, yeah, she was gonna cry.
The light from the green room poured over her face, making her wince as she entered, and then there was Luke, grinning down at her until her saw her expression. He faltered.
“What’s wrong, boss?” Luke, sweet and boisterous Luke, had a way of pitching his voice so low and soft she felt as if she could curl into it. Wear his song like a cloak, gaze up into his eyes, and find all the choicest words. He made her so much better, and for the longest time, they had agreed that she did the same for him.
Luke thought she was his star. Julie was suddenly realizing that all the stars of chance had simply been reflected off of her. He couldn’t see the truth of her through all the blinding light.
She remembered Bobby’s gaze dropping to the floor, his mouth moving. We got an offer.
That’s great, Bobby!
He grimaced. Luke’s hesitating.
Julie looked down to see that her hands had gripped onto Luke’s in a vice, and she began to register the callouses on his fingertips. He was wearing his dad’s old flannel—the one he’d return once the band had made it big. Once he had proven himself to them.
“Jules, you okay?” She met his worried gaze and managed to smile.
“I’m yack-in-a-bowl nervous for you guys.” Not technically a lie. His mouth flickered with a smile, huffing a laugh.
“We’re gonna kill it, just like we always do.” He smirked.
“You are,” she agreed, fiercely. “And you’ll get a manager.”
“Release an album.”
“Go on tour!” She beamed at the thought of all of his dreams coming true.
“And then be inducted into the—“
“—the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame,” they finished together. Part of it still felt like childish fantasy, except in the moments when she could hear the crowd chanting their name. She met Bobby’s eyes over Luke’s shoulder.
He held the gaze for a second before finally looking down at his hands where he was twirling his ring on his finger.
A stagehand knocked and gave the one-minute warning. Alex, Bobby, and Reggie filtered toward the door, the former two pulling the latter along when he seemed like he was going to summon Luke.
Luke set a knuckle under Julie’s chin and she refocused. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Of course!” She said too brightly.
Luke glanced at where the boys had gone and then back to her with pursed lips. He seemed to debate with himself for a second. Let it go. “Okay, well, I’ll see you after? I kinda wanna talk to you about something? Big.”
“He’s gonna ask you out, which we’re all really happy about! For real. But. I don’t want this to come out wrong. It’s just—you should have all the information, y’know?”
As soon as she could loosen her grip, Julie let go of Luke.
Day 2 in the Middle School Time Loop: you remember that last time, everyone ignored you at recess because they were talking about a TV show that you hadn’t watched. This time, you lie and say you’ve seen it. They ask you who your favorite character is, and you don’t know any of the characters, and so you’re tongue-tied. They think you’re weirder than ever, or maybe a liar, which is worse (and true).
Day 3 in the Middle School Time Loop: you tell your parents that you feel ill. They let you stay home while they’re at work. You spend the whole day watching past episodes of the TV Show.
Day 4 in the Middle School Time Loop: Recess again. The same person asks you who your favorite character is. This time, you're ready. You eagerly tell them, and supplement your reasons for liking them with solid evidence from all 4 seasons of the show. But! Tough luck: you’re now too invested. The atmosphere turns uncomfortable. They go back to ignoring you like they did on the Day 1 that you didn’t know was Day 1.
Day 5 in the Middle School Time Loop:
You decide to try a different approach and update your style. You've noticed that Ashleigh, who’s blonde and constantly surrounded by friends, always wears pink stripey sneakers. You try wearing a pink dress. Someone says it’s cute, but you know from how they say it that it isn’t the good cute.
“I thought that pink was cool,” you protest, more to the uncaring universe than to anyone in particular.
Your interlocutor shrugs. “Maybe on someone else.”
Day 6 in the Middle School Time Loop: You keep your head down, but still surprise the teachers by somehow knowing the correct answers to every spontaneous question they throw out to the class. You study the outfits of your classmates more closely. You realize that it wasn’t the color, so much as the brand that made the difference. It proves the shoes were expensive. You note down Ashleigh's sneaker brand in smudgy ink on the back of your hand, and then after school you take half a year's saved-up allowance and buy a matching pair at the mall. Your mom raises her eyebrows but doesn’t stop you.
Day 7 in the Middle School Time Loop: Today you make it to lunch before anything major goes wrong. You think that the sneakers have protected you, and stare down at them lovingly, watching the Barbie-pink plastic stripes reflect the tube lights on the ceiling as you turn your feet this way and that. But then at lunch, Ashleigh comes up, arm and arm with a friend. Her eyes are a little pink, but only a little.
“Ashleigh wanted me to tell you that she’s really hurt that you copied her sneakers,” the friend informs you, nobly, as if it would be too unpleasant for Ashleigh to have to say this herself. Her mouth is solemn but her eyes are gleeful.
“I didn’t…” You start to deny it automatically, even though it’s true. And yet, something won’t let you apologize. Doesn’t she see your imitation for what it is: the most sincere compliment you know how to bestow? This is your Hail Mary.
As you meet her eyes, you realize she does know, but this only makes her despise you more.
“I think a lot of people have these sneakers,” you stammer, in the end, and they just sniff and turn away. You go back to eating your lunch alone.
Day 8 of the Middle School Time Loop: even though you do well in every class, you must be so much more stupid than your classmates, to be missing whatever detail it is that they seem to have caught. How do they do it so quickly? Before recess, before the end of homeroom, even, they all just know. You’ve had endless chances to do this day over and yet you never seem to be able to catch up with them. Running to stand still, you’ve heard your mother say, when she’s busy at work. That’s you. Running to stand still.
Day 9 of the Middle School Time Loop: you pretend to be sick again, and you realize that if you want to, you can pretend to be sick every day. It's easy to convince your parents: you look tired and unhappy, your eyes small within their dark circles, like some underground creature. You stop watching that TV Show that you never really wanted to watch in the first place, and instead dream your way through all your favourite childhood movies. Disney, Pixar, Studio Ghibli. You retreat into jewel-colored landscapes, where everyone is magical or beautiful or at least funny, and the heroes always win in the end.
Day 10 of the Middle School Time Loop: You notice that most of the Pixar heroes, the Disney princesses look more like Ashleigh than you. Long hair. Pale eyes. Button noses. And all of them, so thin.
Day 11 of the Middle School Time Loop: you go to school, but you don’t talk to anyone. You don’t even answer your name at roll call. Your teacher asks you if anything is wrong at school, or at home perhaps. You shake your head, but that evening you hear your father taking a call. You shrug off his worry: it’ll be forgotten tomorrow anyway.
Day 12 of the Middle School Time Loop: an unexpected development: your apathy almost seems to make your classmates like you more. When you say, truthfully, that you don’t care much for the TV Show that eternally dominates the recess chatter, some people look impressed. They ask you what you think is better. But you’re wise and don’t admit to liking anything. "Mysterious," someone says appreciatively.
At the end of recess, the girl who told you off for copying Ashleigh nudges you. “Hey. Look, Robert has an Up shirt. Kind of cute, that he’s still into that stuff, right?”
You know that it’s not the good cute.
You stare at her coldly. “The shirt just has a dog on it. It doesn't say he's from Up. So you must have liked the movie enough to remember him.”
She flushes scarlet, and hurries to catch up with Ashleigh, throwing you a dirty look. Robert glances at you gratefully but you don’t return his smile. He won’t remember that you did this for him. Anyway, you didn't, really. Do it for him, that is.
Day 13 of the Middle School Time Loop: You tell your parents you’re sick again. Today, you watch the second tier of Studio Ghibli movies, the ones that your parents always say, self-consciously, that you’ll find dull. Only Yesterday, Princess Kaguya, When Marnie Was There. You’re only a few minutes into Marnie when there’s a line that pulls you up short:
“In this world, there’s an invisible magic circle. There’s inside and outside. These people are inside. And I’m outside.”
The relief that washes over you is so profound that you almost cry, and then, when the movie's over, you do cry. Ugly sobs that make you sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum at the mall, that make your head pound with a dehydration headache. But behind the tears, there's relief. There it is, the truth that you were searching for, through all these do-overs. There’s an invisible magic circle. Of course there is.
But here’s the thing about circles: the inside is small. The outside is scary, and lonely, but it’s huge: huger than you could ever have imagined before you turned around and looked.
When your dad gets home, he asks if you’re feeling better. “Much,” you say, and it’s true.
Day ?? of the Middle School Time Loop: Sometimes you go to school, but ditch class and go to the library or the playground and do your own thing even if teachers yell at you. Sometimes you wander around the neighborhood. Sometimes you ask your parents crazy things, like to take you to work with them, or to the beach, or to DisneyWorld. Sometimes they say no. A surprising amount of times, they say yes. You wonder if maybe they’re trapped in a time loop too.
Sometimes you sit quietly in other classrooms than the one you’re meant to be in, until they shoo you out or even send you to the principal. (He finds you baffling. You feel a deep, slightly mournful affection for him, like you would for an very old and tired dog). It’s surprising, the amount of different things that are getting taught in one school in one day. It takes you a long time to work your way through them all.
You watch a frog getting dissected a few times before you start to feel bad and don’t go back to that classroom again. Your favorite class to crash is art, because the teacher always clocks that you’re not meant to be there but smiles and lets you stay anyway. When you meet her eyes, it feels like you’re sharing a secret.
Day One-Hundred And Something of the Middle School ...Wait.
At some point, time started moving again, and you didn’t even realize it.
For so long, the reprimands you received about your future seemed so empty, so laughable. There was no future. Only a more- or less-bearable present. But now, your classmates remember the unhinged things that you do; now, your teachers’ and parents’ worries about the future have the full juggernaut weight of reality behind them.
You thought that you’d be more terrified. For so long, you’ve dreaded this forward momentum. No loading screen, no mini-games, just one single, awful, pulsating life. But things are different now. Time’s moving again, and here you are, so far outside the invisible magic circle that you’re not even sure that you'd be able to see it any more. You can still feel its power, but faintly, like the pull between two magnets when they're an arm's length apart. Easy to ignore.
“Are you ready?” Robert says, catching your eye over the kitchen table. He comes here first thing so you can get the bus together. At some point, during the time loop, you started to seek him out. He was outside the circle, too, you realized. But even more importantly, not once, on any of those grimly looping days, did you see him try and push someone else out to make a space for himself. In this crab bucket, that’s something that counts for a lot.
“Our final day of middle school,” he sighs, half to himself. “Never thought I’d see it.”
"Me either," you reply, getting up to put on your talismanic pink sneakers. They’re scuffed and dirty after years of wear, and certainly Ashley would never be caught dead in them these days. Maybe that’s what you should have told her, all those loops ago: that no imitation, let alone one as unskilled as yours, can ever be perfect, and that indeed the very imperfection renders it an original work in its own right. Time and thought and human care transforms even the most diligent copy into something else entirely.
But you’ve been through enough time loops to know that that sort of explanation wouldn’t go over very well.
Hyperspace is smeared white with the light of a million stars, a million planets and suns and moons and people. Hearts of kyber and fleshier things. Flares of life. Bugs on a windshield.
His spine aches and the ache pulls like the fingers of a grubby street child, like a grasping weed, draws his mouth into a thin line. Immeasurable.
The smears don’t blink out as they come out of hyperspace and that confirms his suspicions. He’s going to pass out. Maybe already has passed out and is surfacing, head above water, before the waves submerge him again. Maybe it’s worse than that. He doesn’t think so; he’s grown remarkably good at knowing the limits of his body and feels certain that he’ll die without bacta and bone stabilizers but not immediately. That’ll have to be enough. Internal bleeding aside, his body is not riddled with shrapnel or tattooed with the burning ink of an explosion.
The Death Star fired on its own base and its only Bodhi that got them out. Imperial pilot. Defector.
Cassian doesn’t allow himself to think the word friend.
The grating beneath him shutters, pitches, and he hears distantly K-2’s steady back and forth with Alliance flight control. It’s out of order. An echo. K is dead. K is a square of data in his quarters. K is stuttering into the comms—stuttering—shouting Goodbye into an ever darkening vault. Bodhi is stuttering. Bodhi is alive. K is dead.
A hand bunches into his tattered shirt and presses down into his chest just beneath his collarbone. A shadow leans over him but the stars of hyperspace remain, dashed across the bridge of her nose, her eyes, her mouth. It’s Jyn, he thinks. She was next to him when they took off and Chirrut is a half-dead slump that Baze hovers over. Or was. Maybe now he is an all-dead slump.
This is the first time quiet has sung so loud.
“Cassian. S-stay.” It is Jyn. “You need to stay awake.”
He knows that. The majority of his career has been solo missions, regardless of the presence of assets, and though he’s never really had to call upon it much, he knows basic first aid. Knows how to bandage a blaster shot, a vibroblade wound. Knows that falling asleep with a concussion could mean never waking up.
He knows it but the stars are getting brighter and she’s fading to light.
The stars, suns, moons, the shades of hyperdrive are burned into his eyelids but he still turns his head towards her voice and reaches for her arm, desperate. When he finds it, he slides his palm down her sleeve until he hits exposed forearm and lingers. Presses two fingers to her pulse point. Lingers. Only for a moment. Even as her other hand comes to rest on his wrist, he slides further down to her hand that holds tightly to the clunky weight of the plans. She presses his hand.
“I’ve got them. We got them. Stay awake.”
Can’t, he thinks as his eyelids slip shut. The stars are here. In the dark, and burning bright.
He turns his hand, feels the data drive fall away, and all that’s left is Jyn’s skin.
It’s odd how hungry he is for the touch. More than for the plans even. He remembers touching her hip where they originally hung as soon as he and Jyn were dragged bodily by Baze on board, not even out of atmo yet. Not safe, no promise of escape. Touched and gripped and thought it’s done, though really it isn’t. And still, more than all of that, he wants to touch Jyn Erso and feel that she is alive.
“Cassian, stay awake.”
Maybe he is delirious from the concussion. It’s nonsensical.
He’s never felt an urge to hold a person without motive or prompting.
Cassian. Stay awake.
He won’t and he knows it but the corners of his mouth tighten with an effort.
The concept of the Hyde becoming aimless rather than strictly more aggressive with the loss of its master. Tyler, escaped, haunting the woods near his cave, waiting for Laurel to come back and just tell him what to do, what is he supposed to do? Standing amidst the silence of an abandoned forest, listless, holding himself and feeling his eyes lose focus, supernaturally attuned ears absently picking up on the sound of fallen leaves hitting the earth. At some point—he doesn’t know when—he tore apart a deer but there’s no satisfaction in it like there was when it was Laurel’s biding so it’s laying at his feet, forgotten.
abandoned.
He doesn’t know it, but Wednesday has been looking for him since she heard of his escape. She herself isn’t sure if she means to kill him or study him or… well. She thinks about what a Hyde might do when it’s master is dead but there haven’t been bodies turning up so maybe he went home? She decides to investigate and finds him there with his back to her, stock-still, and she’d think he hasn’t noticed her except for the way his fingers tighten around his biceps.
she waits. If he attacks her, she’ll have her fun in besting him on her own. If he attacks, they can see who’ll draw first blood and—more importantly—who will draw last.
he doesn’t.
wind whispers through the trees, the black, whirling maw of the cave a hellmouth of bad memories, and neither tyler nor Hyde try to kill her. It’s shaping up to be a pathetic birthday.
“Well?” she prompts.
he doesn’t react.
she lets it hang for another moment, but grows impatient: “I killed your master. I’m right here. What are you waiting for?” And then, mockingly, “Orders?”
compellingly, his head turns just the slightest bit towards her and she sees in profile his lost expression. And it clicks then. Because he is and, by the look on his face, they’ve only both just realized it.
this could almost feel like a victory if Wednesday were not suddenly struck by the injustice of it. Because Tyler looks small. Looks lost. Looks like nothing at all.
chains on a wall.
she steps up beside him, more irritated that she can’t even have fun at his expense, and sees the deer. “My parents got me a taxidermy kit for my birthday last year. At least this wasn’t a total waste.”
Later, when she’s instructed Thing to grab the back legs while she takes the front and carted off her trophy, he’s still standing there but gradually, as the dark is setting in, a warmth creeps up on him. He feels his mind waking. Sees from the corner of his eye prey emerging from nearby brush.
———
the next morning, when Wednesday is leaving her dorm for her first class, the toe of her boot collides with the malleable form of a dead rabbit.
I had started writing this when there was so much speculation (wishful thinking) of Obi-wan meeting Cal during Kenobi and just… never finished it 🤷🏻♀️ Thought I’d post it anyway, as one does.
———
He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be looking for at this point. Rather, he’s just grateful to be off-world and untraceable for the moment.
Leia’s bright, knowing eyes swoop around the cantina—Padmé would never forgive him—and turn up toward him gleefully. “This is so much better than back to normal.”
It most certainly is not.
They approach the bar because needs must, and he ushers her to stand in front of him, shielded but the top of her head now peeking over the counter. Again, with too much understanding, she eyes every item on display, eyes the bartender, eyes the patrons on stools beside them. Leans back to eye him. “My mother would not approve.”
It takes him a minute to think of Breha. “I know.”
“I do.”
That does nothing to quell his exasperation, which he has come to realize is a bone particularly tied to the Skywalkers. He ignores it. He’s gotten very good at ignoring it when he must. “Excuse me,” he beckons to the bartender, because he doesn’t know quite what else to do. “My daughter and I—“
“—granddaughter—“
“—are in need of some assistance. We were sent by Haja?”
The bartender looks at him and then Leia and then back to him, and Ben must be very out of practice because just as the male Nautolan opens his mouth, Leia says sweetly, “No. Never mind, we don’t need you,” and turns expectantly and with full confidence to a figure that has appeared beside them. And Ben has no idea why that is.
He sees from the corner of his eye when the newcomer, a human male, notices the youngling’s attention, hears him say, with jarring gentleness, “Hey there,” when there’s a different call from a table on his opposite side:
“You say Haja sent you?”
Ben whips around towards the voice.
He has been around for a relatively long time. He has been across the galaxy. Has waged war and massacred armies and triumphed over Sith Lords. He’s played a bounty hunter, a thug, a common lowlife. So he doesn’t need whatever particular predilection for perception Leia seems to have; he can recognize one when he sees one, and what he sees is confirmation that Haja’s con was a good indicator of what to expect. Which is, in short, a lowlife.
Obi-wan cannot entrust a little girl to a common criminal, especially not this little girl. What would Bail, the man who looked him in the eye and said that there was no one he could trust more with his daughter’s well-being, think? Leia was right to note that Breha wouldn’t stand for it. And what of Padmé?
But what else could he do—
There came a nudge in the Force.
…oh, he had nearly forgotten. Is that truly what it’s always been like? How had he survived so long without it?
How would he return to the lack?
He can’t remember the last time…
The warmth of it could’ve brought him to his knees had he not been so on guard these past ten years. Someone—someone close—but how? Who?
Leia. She knew.
He turns and meets the eyes of the human male who had by then crouched to speak with Leia but was now looking up at him.
He’s got short, red hair and a serene expression on his face; nothing special, except for how entirely he feels like home. It’s so tempting to ask for help, but he can’t. Not after he turned that young Jedi away. He can’t. Can he?
But as it happens, he doesn’t have to.
The man—the boy, really—says with that familiar steady certainty, “I can take you wherever you need to go. You can come with us.”
Ben doesn’t have a chance to wonder at that term ‘us’ before Leia says, with authority, “Yes, that will work nicely. Thank you.”
It’s not until the boy stands and Ben catches sight of his lightsaber clipped openly on his belt that the icy grip of reality cinches around him. He says, more calmly than is warranted, “What are you thinking, walking around with that on your belt?”
(Later, Obi-wan and Leia lingering at the foot of the ramp of the Mantis, his hand on her shoulder to keep her close. Cal in the door with Cere visible just beyond, part of the conversation)
“It would not be wise for us to travel together. It’s not the smart move to help us.”
The Jedi looks at him oddly and says, “Of course it is. Because it’s the right thing. You think the Force brought us together by accident?”
What Ben wants to say out of the overflow of some deeply wounded part of his heart is that he no longer felt that he and the Force were on the same side. That it couldn’t be trusted.
(continued)
“As it was the will of the Force that my padawan turn to the dark side, and the will of the Force that the Jedi be slaughtered while a Sith sits on the galactic throne. We thought the Force willed balance, but it instead cast us into darkness.”
Cal stared at his hands. “I understand. We understand. Better than anyone. But maybe… maybe we lack perspective. Who says this is the end?”
“Maybe,” Junda says, and with such reflection to suggest that she speaks from experience, “your path forward is to help the one who will save your padawan.” But she’s looking at Cal, fondly.
There is a story there, but Obi-wan’s own mind has turned back to a little boy on a little farm on a dustball of a planet, who radiates a little beacon of light out into the Force so bright that he must be visible from space.
Grishaverse!au but like... adjacent. Zuko as the Darkling whose great grandfather Sozin, known as the Black Heretic, (actually) created the Shadow Fold. Katara as Alina because ~balance~ and Sokka as Mal (I KNOW!! THEY ARENT!! SIBLINGS!! I am, in fact, probably a malina shipper [i have read the first book approximately a million years ago and remember being a malina shipper out of sheer stubbornness] but they grew up together and the protectiveness still stands!!) Aang as *spins wheel* Nikolai?? Is that a character?? He’s called the puppy who would be king or something??? I think he had a thing for Alina per spoilers so that’s a little kataang side quest for *flavor* and Toph and Suki can be whomst ever they please because I don’t remember the other characters but these two are queens. Oh and Iroh is Baghra
And Zuko has been taught to believe that expanding the Fold to overthrow the king is doing the world a favor but comes to realize it’s really Not and is like oh ok maybe I won’t do that anymore 👌🏼 but minus all the gross manipulation cause we stan a dumb king
IT LOOKS LIKE KILLIAN WILL BE IN TH DINER WITH SNOW WHEN THEY MEET ZELENA??? (insert spoilers here) MUAHAHAHAHA
(KINDA WANT KILLIAN TO HANG BACK WITH MM HENRY AND HOPE BUT IT DOESN’T REALLY FIT DOES IT WITH WHERE THE CHARACTERS ARE IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT SAYS START IN ONE PLACE AND THEN LET HIM BE THE MAIN WATCH OR WHATEVER SO YEAH) (NEXT SCENE?)
YOU ARE THE PILOT OF YOUR OWN LIFE PUT KILLY IN THAT DINER SCENE SCREW EVERYTHING THIS AINT A NOVEL IT’S A FIC WHERE YOU (more fic spoilers) LEGGOOOOOO
Summary: What Hook expects is to find Emma and Henry in a New York loft with no memories. Then again, she’s always managed to surprise him. (Set after the Missing Year)
Rating: T (but a very gentle T)
a/n: This chapter and I are no longer speaking to each other. It was very rude to me and I won’t forgive it. On AO3 and FFN.
The horrible, lovely thing about Hope was that her tears were often the quiet kind, that secret suffering an odd, unsettling, painful trait that Emma had hoped she’d grow out of. Because the silence was the kind of sadness that wouldn’t be easily soothed. It wouldn’t betray a reason or rhyme, and if she wasn’t looking for it constantly, she’d never even know it was happening. Emma and Henry hated it, that simmering paranoia it fed—wished she’d be louder.
That’s what Henry told him as some small form of comfort when the lass had busted out into wild, red-faced wailing. They’d been wishing for her to be louder. All it took was a magical town.
“We’ll just…” Henry grimaced, glancing towards the bedroom where Mary Margaret had waddled off to the moment they arrived at the loft. She had given them firm instructions to wake her for anything—it, frankly, blew his mind that she was somehow still asleep—and they had every honest intention of doing just that. Except… “We’ll do it ourselves.”
Killian, too, hesitated long enough to mull it over—the mistrust of the Charmings, the mistrust of himself, the hopeful lilt to Emma’s voice when she had handed him their daughter—and knew that he had to do this alone. If he was going to prove himself, it wouldn’t do to shout for help. Even if Hope had latched onto his chest hair and given it a furious yank.
“How hard can it be?” the lad asked, his shoulder quirking in sync with the corner of his mouth. He dodged the arm that swung out for him, the child only crying more ferociously when her hand came back empty, and drew the canister closer to him. “Just follow the instructions, right?”
Killian studied the tin doubtfully—only briefly, with a stern side-eye, before Hope gave another furious howl. His face was nearly as red as hers, the pair making for quite a flustered sight. He smoothed his digits down her quivering back, then worked a finger into her little fist and shifted his weight.
“Okay, so, you just… just change her diaper. And I’ll make her a bottle.”
“Aye, I’ll just change her diaper.”
Henry opened the can of formula that Mary Margaret had taken the pair to buy (the formula that she also paid for), stared down into its depths for a moment, and then firmly resealed it with pursed lips. He pivoted towards Hook. “Maybe I should change the diaper.”
He faltered for a beat, his eyes flitting down and lips pursing. “Your mother showed me how. I think I can manage…” He leaned forward as if to deposit Hope on the bare counter, head pounding too tempestuously for clearer thoughts, when Henry lurched in realization.
“Not here!” he barked, stirring Hope’s competitive nature (that, of course, came from Emma) and ratcheting up her yowls. Quieter, Henry amended, “The floor. Or the coffee table. Or seriously anywhere that isn’t the kitchen. Preferably on something… disposable? Just in case.”
“Aye. Of course.” Killian turned to contemplate how he would get her on the floor. He had no hook, nor hand to support her. He supposed he could attach the hook but that seemed worse than the risk of dropping her. Captain Hook could do many a thing with his lethal claw—gut a man or make him beg; he had adjusted. But this was too much delicacy in one wishful moment. Switch arms? He’d not be able to support her head and—“Maybe you should...”
Henry seemed to agree. With compassion, he uttered, “Just until you’ve had more practice.”
“Of course.” Killian didn’t point out that this could probably be considered practice.
“The instructions seem pretty easy. Just water and then formula. But not too much water. I read online that that’s dangerous. And I think you’re supposed to warm it up? I think I’ve seen that on TV. We can google it.” Henry continued to describe the ridiculously arduous process, tossing out some bewildering and alien terms that Hook had never heard, but it was all for naught.
Killian didn’t know how to tell Henry that he was quite useless with modern technology.
Regardless, they attempted an exchange, squirming babe for plastic tin, before quickly realizing their mistake. Hope let out a ferocious cry, tears streaming down her cheeks and her little fists clenching and releasing and jerking until she was nestled back against the warmed leather of her father’s coat, his soothing sounds pressed into her hair.
She snuffled, smearing her nose into the familiar leather, and he wished he knew what more he could do to ease her pain.
“Um…” Henry twisted the baby formula around and glanced begrudgingly towards the bedroom. “Maybe… maybe we should get Mrs. Nolan?”
“No,” Killian said, too quickly. And then, feeling ridiculously childish for it, he added, “She really ought to rest this late in her pregnancy.”
“Oh. Right.”
An aching moment of Hope’s tears burning deep cavities into his heart set shame alight under his skin. Shame that spread black in his veins. In that profound instant, of whimpers and winces and watery eyes, he was struck with a thought:
He was not meant to be a father.
It was true enough that the time he came from demanded little of a man for the task—but this was not then. And he did not take the privilege so lightly. He thought of Emma grabbing his arm and pushing the girl into his hold, thought of her quiet, hopeful question, her bright eyes and certain mouth that foolishly believed she could leave him in charge for one damn afternoon. And then he thought of the betrayal, the disappointment, the… the disgust that would surely follow when she beheld his failure.
A year ago he left the Charmings behind for open waters because he could not imagine fitting without Emma; now, he wondered if it would be more of the same.
“Okay, just… just try and calm her down a bit and I’ll get started on the bottle. Then we can do diaper duty together.”
“Aye.” He nodded. But the venture was fruitless, his little love squirming in his hold, and making a grand attempt at escape that otherwise would have made him proud, and crying more uproariously with each moment; even as he hushed her, and trailed a finger down the length of her pinked and runny nose, and slid his knuckle over her pinked and damp cheeks—
It was useless.
Henry started shuffling around in the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and opening taps and working furiously at a magic box. A minute later, something beeped and further upset Hope.
Completely useless.
Henry, having accomplished whatever he was doing—he did not deem it necessary to share—hurried to take the girl from Hook’s arms and directed the man about until the pair were huddled over her. And with his only hand completely and necessarily occupied, it occurred to him that he could never do this on his own.
He was so damn useless.
“I just… want to check on them,” Emma muttered, knowing Regina was rolling her eyes and sighing and putting on that haughty act behind her back but she ignored it in favor of knocking soundly on the apartment door.
“We do not have time for this, Miss Swan. This is our one chance to catch whoever took our memories. The pirate can wait—”
“Here’s the thing,” Emma cut in with a slight scowl, “Hook can wait, but I can’t. I just want to see that my kid’s alright. I figured you would understand that.”
After a stricken moment, Regina smirked, her eyebrow tilted with smug amusement. “Don’t trust him?”
Emma heaved a long suffering sigh and turned an annoyed glare on her, not wanting to justify the question because it had no basis. At all. None. She knocked again.
“It’s fair. And I do understand. Because I certainly wouldn’t have trusted him with…” the former queen faltered and then, after gathering her composure, forged ahead, stronger than before, “with Henry. What with the one hand and all.”
Emma didn’t know whether to feed into the pang of sympathy she felt or the urge to defend Hook’s capabilities as a babysitter—no. As a father. Father, not babysitter. Father.
Opting not to fall into Regina’s goading—an obvious defense mechanism if Emma ever saw one—Emma furrowed her brow and turned the handle, startled when she found it locked. “What the hell?”
Scoffing, Regina waved a hand and the satisfying click of the bolt rang out between them. Emma turned to give the woman she tentatively called friend a grateful smile, which Regina promptly ruined with her impatient gaze and gesture towards the door. “Any day now. You really ought to practice using magic.”
Emma rolled her eyes.
She didn’t know what to expect, having left Hook alone all day with an infant and a teenager, having no true experience with parenting in the first place. But Henry was a good kid so it couldn’t really be that bad.
Still, guiltily, she had to admit to the niggling worry that had settled in the back of her mind.
She couldn’t bear it if… if she were wrong earlier. If she had acted on a stupid impulse rather than listening to logic and things had fallen apart. There’d be no one to blame but herself.
But the fear turned out to be misplaced. When she stepped into the room, Regina hanging back in the hall, her heart crawled up her throat in a rich swell of fondness. She could hardly bear it.
Henry was passed out in the armchair, headphones slipping from his ears, mouth hung open with a conspicuous snore. He carelessly wore a perfectly dark patch of probably drool that was probably Hope’s on his shoulder. And lounging opposite him, with one booted foot dangling off the side of the couch, the other planted firmly on the floor, was Captain Hook cradling a baby to his chest and clutching an empty bottle in his hand.
Oh, her heart sighed.
“Oh,” her mouth agreed.
“Emma? Was that you knocking?” A bleary Mary Margaret appeared behind her, yanking her from the moment. Her mother’s dark hair was still perfectly in place, clothes seemingly unrumpled, like pure magic. “Sorry, this pregnancy’s really kicking my butt.” Snow swiped under her eyes and patted down her bangs.
Emma nearly laughed at Mary Margaret’s idea of a rough pregnancy. “Yeah. Sorry. How’d it go? How were th—how was she?”
Mary Margaret bunched her shoulders sheepishly, her gaze following Emma’s to the sitting area. “Honestly, I fell asleep when we got back from the diner. But… it looks like she was fine.”
Emma nodded, folding her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yeah. Everything seems… fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“Alright, Emma. Time to go,” Regina huffed, coming in from the hallway. Her heart, ever betraying her, snatched up her control and turned her face towards the couches, a lost ship beckoned by the light. Roughly, she murmured, “Well. Looks like your pirate isn’t completely useless after all.”
Unthinkingly, Emma breathed, “Yeah. Everything looks good.” And then, realizing: “He’s not my anything.”
a/n: I’m not really a fan of sneak peeks or premature postings, honestly, but it’s been too long. This very simple chapter is fighting me, postponing its posting date. So, here, just to assure you that I am working on it! A very small snippet of conversation.
“We’ll just…” He grimaced, glancing back towards the bedroom where Mary Margaret had waddled off to after a bathroom break the moment they arrived at the loft. She had given them firm instructions to wake her for anything—and they had every honest intention of doing just that. Except… “We’ll do it ourselves.”
“You’re sure?”
“How hard can it be?” the lad asked, his shoulder quirking in sync with the corner of his mouth. He dodged the arm that swung out for him, the child only crying more ferociously when her hand came back empty, and drew the canister closer to him. “Just follow the instructions, right?”
Killian studied the tin doubtfully—only briefly, with a stern side-eye, before Hope gave another furious wail. Her face was nearly as red as his, the pair making for quite a flustered sight. He smoothed his fingers down her quivering back and shifted his weight.
“Okay, so, you just… just change her diaper. And I’ll make her a bottle.”
Summary: What Hook expects is to find Emma and Henry in a New York loft with no memories. Then again, she’s always managed to surprise him. (Set after the Missing Year)
Rating: T (surprise surprise) (I really need to start appropriately rating things)
a/n: I updated on AO3 and FFN, like, forever ago!! and forgot! to post it!!! here! whoops
When they get word from Robin freaking Hood of Sherwood freaking Forest about Little John’s (what the hell even is her life) not-so-mysterious disappearance, she’s hunkered down in her old bed at the loft with Hope plucking clumsily at her shirt, mulling over her brief chat with Regina the day before. She believed Henry’s other mother for a number of reasons—the main one being that Regina hadn’t really profited much from this curse—and that had effectively eliminated her most promising lead.
Which was frustrating as hell, to say the least.
She was back at square one with nothing to work with. She wanted her town, and most importantly her family, safe from an attack that could come at any moment—
—if the latest crisis even had a villain pulling the strings. The disappearances suggested it but a very quiet voice in the deepest recesses of her mind stubbornly whispered that maybe, just maybe, the curse was a way to get her back home. Maybe it had been cast with benevolent intent, to save her, to reunite everyone, or—
She cut the thought off and buried it swiftly under more rational reasons.
She didn’t know the particulars of casting the Dark Curse but assumed that controlled memory loss was an integral part of it—otherwise the curse was really just an… an elaborate portal, right? So, why would her family rip away their own memories if they intended to find her? There had to be a villain.
And that thought told her that they had never intended to come back for her and Henry, and she didn’t want it to hurt so much, didn’t want to think about how they had sent her away again for the sake of saving everyone else, didn’t want to consider that maybe she was too old, too jaded and used to be their daughter, that they would choose safety over family, over her, nobody ever chose her…
She didn’t want it to hurt, but it did.
The tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and hung, suspended on a breath, waiting for one more wave of pain or loss to sweep her up in a current that she had no time to drown in, dammit, she was the Savior and she didn’t need… she wouldn’t waste precious time on tears. It couldn’t be allowed.
But then the thought of her new sibling, her replacement, slipped past her walls and she choked on a sob that was too big to swallow, couldn’t force it back this time, wasn’t strong enough, on her own as always with no one to hold her up while she stumbled—and—and—
Hope nudged at her.
When she smeared the tears from her eyes, blinked it all away, there was her daughter in her arms chewing irritably on the hair that had fallen from Emma’s shoulder and into her face. The girl pressed a tight fist into Emma’s chest and kicked out in a stilted stretch.
And when Hope began to fuss, Emma couldn’t resist a watery laugh that melted into a fond smile. “Okay, okay,” she whispered, gently pulling her hair from her kid’s mouth and tying it up in a loose ponytail.
She smiled. Hope smiled back.
She let the baby nurse and smoothed her dark hair all the while, then paused to prop her up in her lap and rubbed her hand over the creases of a duckling onesie.
Just as she was moving her shirt aside again, Hope stubbornly insisting on trying to pull herself up prematurely (which she couldn’t, but she tried anyway and Emma loved that), quick footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs leading to her room and her father appeared, face a mask of consternation.
“Emma, something’s happened at—” He froze, eyes widening when he glanced at his granddaughter and realized just how… exposed Emma was, hands drifting up to his hips and then falling away uneasily. A faint blush flickered across his face.
Emma raised one encouraging eyebrow, tamping down her previous insecurities about being the Savior, before paying special attention to guiding her girl to her chest.
“Oh, uh,” he stammered and pivoted away. His fists settled firmly on his hips. He paused. “You’re busy. I’ll just… um. I’ll catch you up later or—”
“David. What happened?”
He glanced back at her over his shoulder but quickly dropped his gaze and faced the stairs again. He cleared his throat. “Really, don’t worry about it. You should… you should stay here. With her. There was a—never mind. I’ll handle it.”
And then he was trudging back down the stairs (pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering, embarrassed) (what a guy) before she could react beyond her mouth falling open in bewildered protest. She furrowed her brows as he disappeared, gathered Hope in her arms and followed him stubbornly to the first floor where she found Henry still at the counter, bent over his phone, across from Mary Margaret, and Hook at the door talking quietly with David.
They stood close to each other for the sake of privacy so Emma had to shoulder her way between them, glaring up at her father.
(She felt Killian’s hand brush the small of her back, her side, her hip and excused it as a reaction to her nearly bowling him over and nothing more. It was an accident.)
(It wasn’t)
She set her jaw stubbornly and pushed away any romantic (friendly, platonic, whatever) notions. “You’re gonna tell me what’s going on. You guys brought me here so I could help, so let me help.”
David stepped back and trained his gaze too determinedly on her face, tried to protest with a weak, “I can handle it” before Killian moved to her side (and his hand was definitely pressed to her back, warm and a little uncertain, and she definitely didn’t lean into it) (except she definitely did) and told her quietly, “One of the Merry Men was snatched up by a winged beast.”
“Where?” she asked, focusing on Killian because she had no reasonable excuse not to other than she simply couldn’t handle it—but there were things, many things, that Emma would never admit to and being weak-kneed for the pirate was still one of them. For how long, she couldn’t rightly say anymore because nothing was the same since... well, since Neverland she supposed. Everything had changed.
“The town line. Apparently, local fowl may cross with ease but citizens of the forest have no such luck.” He lifted his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and widened his eyes with mild impatience for the shenanigans of the town. “Your father and I were to meet Robin Hood and his band of misfits for information. I believe it will do little in supplying us with anything new.”
David let out a sound of protest and glared at Killian. “They actually saw what happened. If they saw the creature who took Little John, then maybe they can help us find it.”
“A winged beast at the town line hardly seems to require an expert eye,” Killian started with a snarky tilt to his head until Emma nudged him sharply. But before she could delegate specific tasks, Hope released her mother and pressed away with her small fist, her eyes trained on Hook with something a bit like recognition. A bit like joy.
The sass drifted off, his fight with David forgotten, and he couldn’t help but to smile warmly at the girl; and at an age of imitation, Hope attempted a smile back as she had for Emma, but the churn of her stomach screwed her pink nose with discomfort. She started to fuss.
“Swan?” Killian prompted, stepping just a bit closer and reaching for the girl with his free arm before he remembered his hook and yanked it back under the cover of his coat.
While Emma tugged her shirt up (for her father’s sake really) she called for Henry over her shoulder to grab a towel from Hope’s bag. She shifted Hope with a hand cupping the back of her head and met Henry halfway to grab the towel, but her mind hung on the flying creature attacking the town. She tossed the cloth over her shoulder and settled the baby there.
Emma moved back to Hook’s side, her hand working across Hope’s back, smoothing and patting and rubbing, and her body unintentionally swayed to its steady beat.
(And where she couldn’t see, Killian’s eyes lingered on his artificial appendage, on its curve and sharp edge)
(He knew he shouldn’t have worn it)
(Damn it)
“Okay, David, take the… Merry Men out, run a search grid. See if you can find the missing guy,” Emma sighed. Hope pressed her open mouth to the towel and jolted with a stifled burp, her eyes skipping between Killian and the rest of the room.
“You’re not coming, Swan?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, realizing suddenly that Killian intended on going with David.
Which was fine, of course. He would be the most helpful looking for Little John, not sitting around the loft with her and the baby so he could… so he could what? Watch her burp the kid? Watch her lay Hope down for a nap? And then follow her to the meeting where she’d ‘confront’ Regina so that he could stand off to the side?
Or… or he could be the one to stay with Hope rather than Mary Margaret, could be the one to stand over her to check her breathing, could be the one there when she woke and—
No. No, of course he should go with David.
She couldn’t reasonably leave him alone with Hope. There was still so much he didn’t know compounded with his complete lack of confidence around the girl that she shouldn’t be comfortable with it.
(Or maybe it was that she wanted to be the one to show him how.)
It dawned on her that she hadn’t answered him. “Uh, no. Regina was right; I won’t get answers talking to everyone one-by-one. I’m calling a meeting.”
He furrowed his brow but nodded anyway, moving back towards the door with his hook still tucked behind his back. David stepped out into the hall with Killian just on his heels and she didn’t know what made her do it but she lunged forward and grabbed him by the elbow.
“But, um, maybe you’d stay? To watch Hope?”
Killian stepped into her space reflexively in a way she was surprised to find familiar and lifted his hand in a halted reach before dropping it back to his side. His thumb fluttered over his fingertips. “Aye. I’d like that.”
From the hall, David made a disgruntled noise. “You sure he wouldn’t be more useful in the search?”
“You’ll find,” Hook bit back, that chill of defense coursing up his stiffened spine, “the forest isn’t really my forte, mate. You know. Pirate and all.”
The two eyed each other, one with distrust and the other annoyed resignation, igniting the air with tension so thick it made Hope squirm her way back into the spotlight. She gave a happy little grunt and tugged her mother’s chain when it fell into her reach.
Before anyone could say anything else that would weaken Emma’s newly-shifted resolve, she cupped Hope’s head and bum and tucked her into the cradle of Killian’s arm. “Now’s really not the time, David.”
She grabbed her coat and, with only a beat of hesitation, pressed a kiss to the top of Hope’s head and ushered her father outside.
She had things to do and not a lot of time to waste.
Snow ordered an orange juice and a pastry he didn’t yet recognize, and then proceeded to not touch either while she buried her nose in some book about American babies. He didn’t know what exactly that meant, but based on her expression, he was hoping to hell that Hope wasn’t an American anything.
Henry beside him was completely invested in some sort of game on his talking phone. Hope slept soundly with her cheek pressed to his chest, face smooshed and mouth hanging open. Ruby kept shooting them miserable glances. And his hook sat uselessly on the counter back in the loft, leaving him without even his wooden substitute.
The sounds of the diner chimed pitifully under the sharp flip of pages and folding corners. Mary Margaret’s eyebrows swung low in alarm.
“My God,” she muttered into her book. Her eyes flitted across the pages. “Did you know there’s something called ‘cradle cap’? Babies get it on their heads…”
Killian skimmed Hope’s dark tuft of hair. “What now?”
She didn’t even pause, just leaned back in the booth as she read excitedly, “It’s a crusty, yellow, greasy, scaly skin rash.” She looked over at Henry, who still hadn’t faltered from his game, and tried again, “Seriously, this book uses all of those words.”
“Bloody hell,” Killian said on an exhale, his free arm moving to support Hope while he smoothed his hand over her head, absolutely not worrying. The little girl stirred for a moment and turned her face into his coat, before settling back again with cheek to chest.
Henry flicked his eyes over to his sister and said, “She’s already had it.”
“She what?”
He nodded into his game and muttered something about ‘rezzing’ someone. “Yeah. Really gross. But it goes away on its own, so…” He shrugged.
“So, it doesn’t hurt her?” He combed down the hair he’d mussed and pressed his lips to her head.
Henry let out a reassuring “nah” before delving back into the game.
Snow pursed her lips in consideration, felt herself deflating the more Henry continued to ignore her, and tried to think of something that would win him over. She didn’t think it would be so hard to befriend her own grandson. She’d been his teacher since he’d started school, for goodness sake, but he only seemed to talk to the pirate and that was… well, quite insulting, honestly.
“You know,” she started and hoped she sounded appropriately aloof, “there’s a library down the street. We can go and get you something, if you want. I know how much you like to read.”
Henry’s face folded into confusion but his gaze never wavered. “How’d you know that?”
“Oh, um.” Snow glanced at Killian who had his cheek tilted to touch the top of Hope’s head and was hardly invested in the conversation anymore. “Your… your mom mentioned it. I think.”
Here, Henry looked up at his grandmother, his eyes free of suspicion. He seemed to consider it, his fingers hovering over the screen in anticipation of resuming the game, his eyes traveling quickly to his sister. “Hope likes being read bedtime stories. Think we can find something with, like, fairytales or whatever?”
Both Killian and Snow stilled, she from a nervous reflex, and he from the morsel of information. A quick, accidental find that he tucked away in his mind. Hope liked bedtime stories. Such a simple thing, small and quite ordinary—all things considered, it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. But it tripped the beat of his heart, even still.
He tried to picture it. He imagined Emma leant on the edge of the crib, her golden curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back, with a creaking book in hand—or no, a new book, her fingers gripping the cover and her soft voice carrying the story—
No. Emma lounging in a polished chair, stained dark and smooth, their daughter settled on her chest so that she can feel the words running across Emma’s breast bone. Her toes pushing them into the rhythm of a fabled sea, like a ship rocked to nature’s lullaby, the pair swaying on the imaginary deck of Emma’s creation. Moonlight filtered through silvery curtains—oh, blue curtains, as sweet and soft as the girl’s fresh eyes, the beams pressing soft shadows into their skin, and him in the doorway—
“Cool,” Henry nodded, breaking Killian from his thoughts. “Let me run upstairs and grab my coat.” The boy turned his body in a leading manner, attention back on his talking phone, and scooted closer. Killian slid from the booth and shifted out of Henry’s way, the lad scurrying passed and through the backdoor to the inn.
With clear exhaustion, the princess sighed heavily and leaned her face toward her hands that rested on the table, as best she could in her condition. The tension in her shoulders was obvious, especially to him who was in the habit of studying people. He saw and understood. And normally he would ignore it—not particularly invested in… anyone’s problems—but something made him offer begrudgingly, “He’ll come around. If not on his own, it’s only a matter of time before—”
“Oh, hello there!” A voice chirped over his shoulder in that tone that would catch a child’s attention. That condescending, high-pitched manner. “Aren’t you pretty! Yes, you are.”
Hook glanced at Hope who had maneuvered herself to peek over his shoulder at—he turned to look—a lovely redhead, the undoubted source of such a grating sound. Her lips were pulled back into a magnificent display of bared teeth, a sweet enough smile at first glance. She was seated at a table for two, her coat draped over her arm.
He gave her a curt nod with a smile more like a grimace before turning back to Emma’s mother, the rest of his sour encouragement still poised on the tip of his tongue when the stranger continued, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear—new father?” She rose and made her way closer unfortunately.
Hook’s eyes rolled of their own volition. He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows. “Something of the sort.”
“How old is she?” The vibrant woman cooed at his child, niggling a finger in Hope’s face. Despite the lass’s giggles, he turned his body away irritably.
“Not very.”
The redhead smarted, her pasted-on smile wavering for just a beat. “If I may, she’s adorable. So sweet. The picture of innocence.”
Snow managed through her beaming smile, “Isn’t she?” just as he snapped back, “How kind and incredibly unsolicited of you.”
“Hook,” Mary Margaret reprimanded sharply.
At length, he turned his gaze back to the princess and attempted to soften his expression.
Under different circumstances, in a different town, in a different sort of establishment, he might’ve taken the attention better. He might have flirted. Redheads weren’t his type, but if he were drunk enough… Still, it was Storybrooke. And his daughter. In a life of loss, he couldn’t afford to be casual with the welfare of the one person left who might love him.
“I’m… sorry,” the woman managed, grimacing and ducking her face away. Something about her grated at him.
But Emma’s mother was giving him that distrustful side-eye, the one where she tried to subtly flick her eyes to the squirming bundle in his arms with blatant concern, and he was already exhausted from the no-doubt uphill battle of proving himself, and so he gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgment. It hardly mattered.
By that time, the woman had introduced herself as Zelena and settled in the booth beside Mary Margaret, blathering on about her experiences as a midwife, the pair finding comradery rooted in a common enemy.
He suddenly had a horrible feeling about the whole thing, but decided against saying anything further. It would only fortify a bond best broken. Instead, he turned his gaze to Hope, who had begun to fuss, and felt a different sort of panic swell in his chest.
Heyyyy guys. Wow, it’s been like three thousand years. On the bright side, I finally know what scenes the next chapter of Gratified will include. It only took me three lifetimes...
I’m so sorry, I’m the worst.
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