The Unexpected Life -- 1/3
SUMMARY: Killian never thought he'd end up a librarian. He had other plans. Plans that didn't work out. But just because you never got where you wanted to go, doesn't mean you're not exactly where you need to be.
Next up on Trope-a-palooza: The Library.
Captain Swan with a huge helping of Captain Cobra on the side, and an absolute absence of angst.
(Yes, you read that right. ABSENCE OF ANGST. This is my very best effort at writing something sweet. Which, let me tell you, does not come naturally to someone like me. i deleted nearly 3000 words along the way, and was yelled at in ALL CAPS until i promised not to torture the lovely cinnamon roll that is librarian!killian. Good thing, too. This story needs no angst.)
| AO3 |
A/N: This is my entry for @csseptembersunshine. Thank you to the incredible @captainsjedi for organizing it and doing ALL the work.
(Part 2 will go up on Friday, Part 3 next Monday).
-/-
@shireness-says -- THANK YOU for the invaluable advice on all things library-related, for looking this over, and for sharing the insanity that is the life of a librarian. i still say we gotta make this a sitcom.
@profdanglaisstuff - without you there would not be a story. And to be honest, there might not have been an author left, either. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.
And guys - can we please all take a moment to send our love to @mariakov81 - who did the banner AND the drawing. Honey - you are amazing and incredible and i do not have words big enough to THANK YOU FOR THIS.
If you want on or off this tag list, let me know!
@mariakov81 @stahlop @thejollyroger-writer @snowbellewells @captainsjedi @toomanyfandomstochoosefrom @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @mayquita @ohmightydevviepuu @sals86 @karenfrommisthaven @kmomof4 @kday426
PART 1
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.
- Douglas Adams, “The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul” -
It’s strange, the way it happens slowly and yet suddenly.
One afternoon, a random Tuesday afternoon, she walks into his library with a small boy and somehow never leaves. Or at least that’s what it feels like.
He doesn’t really notice her the first time she comes in. He has his hands full with helping a group of people fill out job applications, and she and the boy sit down quietly at one of the tables.
The boy pulls out homework and the woman pulls out a laptop, and there is very little conversation. Later, he finds her and the boy on one of the couches, reading together. She keeps her voice low and the boy is curled up against her, and then her phone beeps.
She simply hands the book to the boy. “Sorry, kid - I have to---”
“Got it. You go.”
She kisses the top of his head and says, “I’ll be back soon, OK?”
The boy smiles and then keeps reading.
She comes back two hours later, a little disheveled and a little out of breath. The boy looks up and asks, “Got him?” and she smiles and nods and then someone walks up to him with a question and he doesn’t notice them leave.
That night finds him in front of his laptop. Just like every wasted night before it. Years of it now.
There are four paragraphs on his screen. They are the sum total of three hours he has spent trying to write. When he re-reads them, he counts three split infinitives and a metaphor tortured beyond recognition, and the entire thing smacks of The Silmarillion.
With a sigh he deletes all of it.
And then types the word ‘The’.
He stares at it for another hour. The words will not come, no matter what. In the end he gets up, wipes his eyes in frustration, and goes to bed.
They come in every day. Every afternoon around 3PM they set up shop at the end of the table. When the boy is finished with his homework she simply asks, “All done, kid?”, and when the boy nods, she believes him. Mostly he reads by himself after that. Sometimes they read together. They look peaceful, next to each other on the couch.
The thing that really makes him pay attention is that they start coming in on weekends as well. And spend most of the day in what he now thinks of as ‘their corner’. And that they have only spoken a handful of words to him in almost two months. She has smiled politely, and nodded when he said “Hello”, and on the second day she asked where the bathroom was. The boy requested access to one of the computers and must have remembered the password, because he has not asked for it since.
They keep to themselves, her engrossed with the things on her screen, and the boy canvassing the Young Adults section when he gets done with his homework. Her phone beeps often, but not too loudly. Not so much that it is a nuisance. Usually after she gets a beep, she leaves for a spell. More often than not she comes back somewhat out of sorts, but she always smiles brightly at the boy and usually brings him a pastry. Strictly speaking, food is not allowed in the library. But he has never enforced this rule, as long as people don’t start bringing actual tupperware.
He can’t make heads nor tails of it. But he is content to leave them be. All lives need a little mystery, and this is his.
And then, one Saturday evening right before closing, her phone beeps, and forces her into interaction. The way she stands in front of him, biting her lip, somehow both nervous and determined, makes it very hard not to smile at her. When he knows instinctively that smiling at her will make whatever situation worse, so he clamps down on his grin and simply nods his encouragement.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says, her voice low. “You’re the manager, right?” He nods.
“I know you close in 20 minutes, but I just---” She holds up her phone, and bites her lip again. “I just got a... job---” it’s odd, the way she pauses, “and I really really need to leave for a bit, and---” She takes a deep breath, and then suddenly there is a rush of words. “Would it be OK for Henry to stay here a little past closing?” She points at the boy, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap, following their conversation. “I promise he’ll be no trouble. He doesn’t need a babysitter, he can keep himself busy. It’s just, I really need---”
It’s the word ‘need’ that gets him. Not the word, the sheer desperation behind it.
He was about to tell her no. He is tired, and starving, and really wants to go home. But what she’s asking is not a simple favor, he can tell There is more here than meets the eye, and so he does smile.
“It’s no problem,” he says.
She breathes an enormous sigh of relief and then looks both grateful and chagrined at herself, as if she had betrayed too much emotion.
“Thank you.” It’s quite possibly the most sincere thanks he has ever received. Her eyes are earnest. This is not someone who is used to asking for favors.
Not someone who needs favors. From anyone.
She looks over at the boy. “Kid, you can stay. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
The boy smiles and rolls his eyes. “I know the drill.”
“Do not bother this nice man, OK? Please? Can you promise me that?”
The boy - no, Henry - rolls his eyes again. It’s an expression he can picture her making. Often. “Go, Mom. Just go!”
She laughs and looks back at him. “I really appreciate this. I promise to make it up to you.”
“It’s fine.”
Her eyes narrow for the briefest of moments and then her face relaxes and he feels like he just passed an important test. This whole exchange has been exceedingly odd.
Then she holds out her hand. “My name is Emma. Emma Swan. And I’m just--- Thank you so much. Again.”
He has never seen anyone so torn. She is so sincerely grateful for his help and yet so absolutely exasperated with herself for having to ask for it in the first place. She hands him her phone. “Can you put your number in here?”
He types in his number. “Nice to meet you, Emma Swan. I’m Killian. Killian Jones.”
And with that she nods, says, “Bye kid!”, and leaves.
Henry’s eyes look at Killian with that same scanning mode his mother demonstrated a moment ago, and then he goes back to reading his book.
Odd.
Almost an hour of silence later, Henry’s stomach rumbles. Loudly.
Killian gets up from his desk, where he has been doing nothing but stare at an empty screen, and sits down next to the boy. “What would you say to a spot of pizza?”
Henry looks up and grins. “A spot of pizza?”
“Well--” Killian shrugs, “I feel victuals are in order.”
Henry’s eyebrows climb nearly to his hairline. “Where are you from?”
“England.”
“Do they all talk like that? I don’t even know what victels are.”
Killian grins. “VicTUALs. It means food supplies. And no, not everyone talks like that. But former English professors do.” He doesn’t mean to say that last part. It just slips out, and he grinds his teeth for a moment..
Henry, on the other hand, just nods and quietly repeats the word. “Victuals. Got it.” Then he frowns. “I don’t have any money.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Henry gives him a very sharp look. He is definitely his mother’s son. Then he grins. “In that case, I could eat some pizza. I like mushrooms.”
It’s almost 10 PM, the pizza has been devoured, and he has tried texting Emma twice, without an answer. Henry looks both tired and worried, and tries to let neither show. It’s impressive for such a young boy. When the third yawn looks like it’s going to dislocate his jaw, Killian makes a decision.
“Henry, when is your usual bedtime?”
“Kind of a little while ago.”
Killian nods. “That’s what I thought. Come with me.”
He leads the boy to his office and makes him lie down on the couch. As he’s looking for a blanket, Henry’s voice comes out from underneath another yawn. “Please don’t be mad at my mom.”
Killian looks up in surprise. “Be mad at her? Whatever for?”
Henry’s voice is low and earnest. “I know she said she wouldn’t be long, and now she’s late. But she always has a really good reason, and I know she didn’t mean to. Be this late.”
Killian walks over to the couch and spreads a blanket over the boy. “May I ask what your mother does for a living?”
Henry smiles. “She catches bad guys.” It sounds proud.
“Is she a police officer?”
“No.” Henry shakes his head. “I think she wanted to be. But they wouldn’t let her. So she does bail bonds now.”
“Bail bonds?” Killian only has a vague idea what that entails. “They call them skips. People who run away from their trial. She catches them and brings them back.” Henry looks a little more worried than he did just a moment ago. “She’ll be back, I promise.”
Killian realizes that Henry isn’t worried for his mother. He’s worried Killian will think badly of his mother. Then another yawn overtakes him and Killian puts his hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“I’m sure she will,” he says. “Meanwhile, why don’t you sleep?”
Henry’s eyes are already falling shut and Killian turns off the light and makes his way back to the main floor.
He pulls out his laptop and sets it down on the table.
And just stares at the word ‘The’.
Nothing comes.
45 minutes later there is a loud banging on the front library doors. When Killian opens them, Emma practically falls into the foyer.
“Please forgive me,” she says. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”
This time there is no misplaced pride in her voice. She sounds crushed and contrite and almost frantic.
He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Breathe, Emma. It’s fine.”
“It’s just -- that bastard was late showing, and then he put up a fight, and then booking down at the station took forever and my phone ran out of battery and---”
“Emma,” he repeats, and waits until she looks at him. “Please breathe.”
She takes a deep breath and looks around. “Where’s Henry?”
“Asleep in my office. Come with me.”
She stops him within feet of his office. Through the half-open door they can see Henry’s head burrowed into a cushion, his breathing slow and even, fast asleep. She tugs on Killian’s sleeve and motions him to take a few steps back. Then she looks at him, all earnest remorse and sincerity.
“How can I make it up to you?”
He shakes his head and smiles. “No need.”
She bites her lip hard. He knows that for some people - him included - it’s hard to accept kindness from strangers. But for her? It seems impossible.
“Please tell me. Let me give you something.”
She is squirming . It would be endearing if it weren’t so obviously eating her alive.
Killian shakes his head. “Tell me, Emma Swan,” he looks her straight in the eye, “the fact that you left tonight, it was necessary, yes?”
She nods. Still squirming. But committed to honesty.
“If there had been another way, you would have chosen it, yes?”
She nods again.
“Then there is no need to feel bad. You don’t owe me anything. It was my pleasure.”
The last bit surprises him as he says it. Because it really had been a pleasure. Henry somehow ended up being perfect company - quiet and smart and a fiend for mushroom pizza.
He had thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Emma gives him the exact same sharp look Henry gave him earlier, but then her shoulders relax. “Thank you,” she says, and again the sheer sincerity of it makes him swallow hard.
“May we come back to your library? Even after all this?” She bites her lip again. “Henry really loves it here.”
Killian has to smile. “Well, it is a public building, you know,” he says, and then removes all flippancy from his tone. “You are more than welcome any time. It’s a pleasure to see someone who enjoys books so much. I wish there were more people like your son.”
“Thank you again.” She exhales a long breath.
It is only then, as her shoulders slump and release their tension, that he notices how utterly exhausted she looks. And that she is somehow more disheveled than she usually is when she returns. The front of her t-shirt looks overstretched, like someone pulled at it, hard.
And then the guy put up a fight.
“Emma,” he says quietly, “Are you all right?”
Her eyes narrow immediately and the tension springs back into her shoulders as she pulls them back in defiance.
“I’m perfectly fine.” Her tone is icy. “Thank you for watching Henry.” This ‘Thank you’ could not be more different from the last ones. It is calculated dismissal and it leaves him dumbstruck. “We won’t take up any more of your time. Just let me get the kid and go home.”
With that she walks into his office and gently rouses Henry. He looks sleepy and not altogether present, even after he sits up.
Killian hurries in after her. He can’t help but feel like he messed up, but he doesn’t quite know what he did wrong. And he certainly doesn’t know how to fix it. But he has to try.
“Can I call you a cab? Or an Uber, or something?” It looks like Henry is about to fall over, and the boy looks too big for Emma to carry.
She shakes her head. “We’ll be fine.”
And with that she does pick him up and leaves, wobbling slightly under his weight.
He finds himself worrying whether they made it home OK for several hours.
They come in the following Monday bearing gifts. When they show up, Henry plunks a paper bag down on Killian’s desk and Emma carefully follows that with a takeout cup, smiling sheepishly.
“This is for all your troubles. And for feeding Henry pizza.”
The cup obviously holds coffee, which smells delicious. When he looks inside the bag, he counts at least five different kinds of pastry.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so we got you a bit of a selection.” She looks embarrassed.
Henry looks at him in question. “I guessed croissants and bear claws.” He shudders. “ Mom thought muffins were a good idea.” He is obviously upset at the very thought. “And Danish .” His disgust at the latter is unmistakable.
Killian grins. “Not a fan, I take it?”
Henry merely shakes his head with an “Ugh!” and Emma rolls her eyes.
“Well,” he says, winking at both, “I love them all. So this is perfect.” He looks at Emma. “Completely unnecessary, you understand. But perfect. Thank you.”
Emma bites her lip and Henry beams.
Both are lovely to watch.
It goes on from there.
They come in, Henry does his homework, Emma leaves on occasion, and they both occupy that corner of the table and the couch so much he has started to think of both as intrinsically theirs.
They bring him a pastry and coffee every day, no matter how much he protests.
So he in turn just keeps ordering pizzas every night Emma runs late. It turns out that she also likes mushrooms. Killian saves her slices, and more often than not, when she returns, she stays to eat them.
It’s nice, sharing food after work, when the library is empty and quiet and they have it all to themselves. Henry is usually off in his corner, and Killian and Emma talk about books. There is nothing dangerous in that. Nothing too personal, nothing too revealing. It feels safe, but it also feels wonderful - to be able to talk about books again with love, with excitement. With something other than a prevailing sense of shame and failure. Listening to her doesn’t hurt. She loves books, and spends a long time raving about her list of absolute favorites. It’s a very long list -- her ‘Top Ten’ alone easily spans thirty titles. None of which he has read. All of which he plans to read as soon as possible.
One evening, when Emma is again running late, Henry asks him to look over his English essay. It’s been so long since anyone has asked him to look over some actual writing, he gets a little choked up.
He has to swallow past the lump in his throat. “What’s the assignment?”
Henry points to the open Google doc on the library computer. “It’s creative writing. Our teacher gave us a phrase and asked us to build a story around it.”
“What’s the phrase?”
Henry wordlessly points to the title. It says, …and then I pulled out my phial of invisibility potion.
Killian sits down and starts to read. And can’t believe his eyes. Henry can write .
The story is basically one scene, but what a scene it is. It starts with a man crossing a desert, thirsty and tired and near the point of giving up, when he suddenly hears a noise to his left. And then behind him. And then to his right. By the time the man in the story hears the noise directly in front of him, Killian is completely hooked. The man stops, realizing that he is surrounded by something , when the sand in front of him parts to reveal a monster with the body of a snake and the head of a dragon, fangs dripping poison. The monster starts to pull its body tightly around the man, who, with his last bit of strength pulls out the phial of invisibility potion and drinks it. And this is where the real brilliance comes in. Henry takes a moment to describe the nature of the monster itself, specifically the fact that for this creature things which it cannot see do not exist. Because it lives buried in the sand, constantly enveloped, its sense of touch has faded and only sight and sound remain. The monster - confused at no longer being able to see its prey and whipping its head around looking for the man - lets its body grow slack and the man escapes quickly and quietly.
“Henry,” Killian looks up at the boy. “This is incredible.”
Henry’s smile is shy - and completely happy. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, lad. It’s good. Really good.”
Henry bites his lip. Just like his mother. “Good enough to hand in?”
“Definitely.” Killian realizes just how much he means it. “You have truly gotten to the heart of this assignment, I believe.” Henry beams. “You have kept it simple and yet riveting, and choosing to just write a scene, instead of trying to construct a whole story weighed down by tons of exposition, was a stroke of brilliance. You throw your reader into the middle of the action, you explain just enough to let them understand where they are and who your protagonist is, you build tension and excitement immediately, set up the premise clearly and then pay it off with that phrase about the invisibility potion. That phrase is the climax of your story, as it should be.”
Killian smiles brightly at Henry, who now looks puzzled, and it’s only then that Killian realizes he’s talking to a 4th grader. He shakes his head and smirks at his own analysis.
“That means it’s good, Henry. Definitely good enough to hand in.” Henry smiles again. “The only thing I’m asking myself is whether the monster should have a name. Wouldn’t the hero of your story know what it’s called? He must have heard of it before, since he knew how to defeat it. And brought the phial just for that purpose, I assume.”
Henry’s face scrunches up. “I never thought of that, but that makes perfect sense. It should definitely have a name.” He looks at Killian. “Can you help me think of one?”
“I can try. What kind of sounds do you think the name should have?”
“Sounds?”
“The sounds letters make can be descriptive,” Killian nods at the boy. “For example, think of the words we use to describe the sounds animals make. Snakes hiss . That’s pretty much the sound they actually make.”
Henry’s eyebrows draw together. “Cows moo,” he mumbles. “Cats meow. Yeah, I get that.” He bites his lip again. “There should be hissing in the name, because the body is a snake, but also roaring, because the head is a dragon,” he says with conviction.
“Let’s have some fun with it.” Killian winks at him. “Pull up Google translator and let’s see what some of these words mean in Latin. Or Greek.”
“Or Chinese!” Henry beams again. “Lots of dragons are Chinese!”
When Emma walks in an hour later (Killian has taken to giving her his spare keys when she leaves right before closing), she finds them in a deep discussion on whether the word vrychithmós can be simplified into something vaguely pronounceable, and whether Nùhǒu or sfýrigma carries more weight.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Both heads snap up to look at her, wearing identical sheepish grins. It throws her for a complete loop.
Henry says, “Hey mom”, while Killian nods at her as his grin morphs into a happy little smile.
She gives them both a raised eyebrow. “Seriously. What are you talking about?”
Henry launches into a convoluted explanation involving his English essay, and the importance of sounds when creating a name, and that they have been trying to build a name for his monster from the Google translations of ‘hiss’ and ‘roar’.
Emma has a hard time listening.
All she can see is that her son is excited and happy, and that the quiet librarian next to him is enjoying every moment of it. It fills her with gratitude. And absolute panic.
And then she sees the bowls on the table, next to a half-empty tupperware container.
“You made dinner?” She sees him wilt before her accusatory tone, but she can’t help herself.
The tips of his ears grow bright red, and he reaches up to scratch behind one of them. It’s a gesture she has observed many times, and by now she knows it signifies extreme nervousness on his part.
“I had l-leftover eggplant parmesan at home,” he stutters. “I-- I thought I’d bring it in instead of pizza.”
She doesn’t believe him for a second. These are not leftovers. He cooked. He cooked for her son.
Panic and gratitude ratchet up in equal measure.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped.” His voice is quiet and unsure. “Henry asked me to look at his essay, and I didn’t see the harm in--- I won’t do it again if it bothers you, I promise. And I don’t have to--- we’ve just been eating pizza a lot, and I thought--- I’m sorry. We can just order pizza next time.”
Next time .
Everything inside her wants to tell him in no uncertain terms that there won’t be a next time. But the truth is that she and Henry have nowhere else to go, and she doesn’t want to leave her son alone in the apartment at night, not in their neighborhood. And Killian looks contrite and ashamed, as if he did something wrong. When all he has done is help her out, time and time again. All he has done is help Henry out, feeding him dinner and helping him with his homework.
Emma bites down hard on all the scathing things jostling at the tip of her tongue, and takes a deep breath. It’s not Killian’s fault that she hates this with every fiber of her being. That her natural instinct is to not let Henry get attached to anyone, because people will eventually disappoint him and leave.
Killian has done nothing wrong.
She exhales slowly and tries to smile. “Eggplant parmesan? You got Henry to eat vegetables ?”
“It was awesome,” Henry says, completely oblivious to the war raging inside Emma and turns to Killian. “What do you think about sfýrigiss? Give it a hissing sound at the end? ”
Killian is still looking at Emma, his eyes uncertain, like he’s skating on very thin ice. “I think that’s a great idea, and that whatever you decide will be a fearsome name in the end. Worthy of your monster.”
Emma smiles and shakes her head. It’s time for a peace offering.
“I don’t think the name roars enough,” she says, pulling up a chair. “We can think of something more powerful.” She raises one eyebrow at Killian. “Is there some food left for me? Any vegetable my son deems ‘awesome’ I have to try.”
Killian’s smile as he nods and pushes tupperware and cutlery towards her is so full of joy and relief, it makes the panic inside her subside.
Just the tiniest bit.
But enough to make it less panic than gratitude.
A week later Emma shows up holding a six pack of beer. Craft beer. In bottles.
Killian can’t not smile.
“We saved you some pasta,” Henry says, not looking at Emma as he takes the bottle of soda she hands him, and then retreats to his corner of the couch. He’s in the middle of The Prisoner of Azkaban , and has been uncommunicative for days. The last time they tried to get him to put the book down and have dinner he actually growled at them. Growled . He has also let it slip that his eleventh birthday is later that month, and Killian has already ordered him a beautiful hardcover set. Every kid should have his own Harry Potters .
Emma opens her bottle and takes a large swig. “So Henry tells me you were an English professor.”
It is the first time she has broached a personal subject. It’s a heady mix of lovely and extremely uncomfortable.
He nods. “I was.”
She takes her time twirling spaghetti onto her fork before she goes on. “What made you stop? May I ask?”
He’s been dreading that question. He’s been asked about this many times, and he never ever tells the truth. He has a whole slew of colorful excuses, which range from slight distortions of actual facts to outright lies. But strangely enough, he doesn’t want to lie to her.
So he answers honestly. “Burn out.”
Her eyes go wide in surprise. “English professors can get burned out?”
He nods again. “They can.”
She puts the fork in her mouth and rolls her eyes as she begins to chew. “ Damn this is good,” she mumbles, her mouth full. She swallows and immediately digs back in. “Are you sure you weren’t a chef?”
He grins. It’s so lovely to see her enjoy his cooking. It’s so lovely to see her enjoy anything. When Emma Swan likes something, she does so wholeheartedly. It’s like a mask drops from her face and the tension bleeds out of her bearing and he can see the person beneath the carefully controlled exterior, carefree and happy and able to take pleasure from the little things in life. Her face lights up eating his pasta just like it did when she talked about her favorite books. More even, now that he’s no longer such a stranger.
“I am quite certain I have never been a chef,” he grins. “Quite certain no one has ever accused me of being a chef.”
“They should,” she mutters around another mouthful. “You may have missed your calling.”
It hits him where it hurts the most, that sentence, and he can’t stop his face from reflecting it. He knows he doesn’t have a poker face, much as he would like to, and he can see it the moment she notices.
Her eyes go wide and she puts one hand in front of her mouth in distress. “Killian, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’re----”
“It’s all right, love,” he grinds out. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her voice is soft as she continues. “I’m really sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. But--- I’d really like to know what happened. How you ended up here.”
He sighs. He might as well get it over with. “Have you ever heard the expression publish or perish ?”
She shakes her head no.
“Well, when I started out, I was going to make a name for myself in academia. I went to Oxford to get a doctorate in Philology.”
Her eyebrows fly up, and he can tell she is trying to hold back the question, trying not to interrupt him. It makes him smile. “Philology is the study of language. Specifically in literary texts, as well as oral and written historical sources. It’s basically where linguistics, literary criticism, and history ‘hang out and party’. As you Americans call it.”
Emma snorts a laugh. “We Americans do say that. Especially when we talk about linguistics and literary criticism and history. Big partiers, those three.”
Her eyebrow is quirked and there’s a gently teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and--- has she always been this beautiful? Or is it just tonight, with her body relaxed and her green eyes sparkling and a fork full of pasta halfway to her mouth that he can see her clearly?
He laughs. “You should see them walk into a bar and cause mayhem.” He shakes his head. “For me, it was mainly because I loved Tolkien and fancied myself quite the linguist. I did my dissertation on the influence of language on the creation of myth and belief in the Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion . I didn’t just love Tolkien, you understand. I wanted to be Tolkien. The next Tolkien.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s just say that didn’t work out.” He looks at her. “So I ended up here instead, thousands of miles away, the proud owner of a library science degree, trying to keep chaos at bay and storytime scheduled.”
There’s empathy in her eyes. “That had to be hard for you.”
He laughs, and hears just how helpless it sounds. “To resign myself to the rubbish heap of history? Yeah. A bit.”
She grins. “You’re not the ‘rubbish heap of history’. That’s just your pride messing with you.” Then she looks straight at him. “I’ve seen what you do here. You inspire kids to read. You help people with their job applications. You help them study for their GEDs. You teach the elderly how to use the internet, and you help those whose first language isn’t English understand important forms, and you help young people with their resumes.” She puts a hand on his arm. It’s warm, and firm, and reassuring. “You make a difference.”
He can’t speak. There’s a lump in his throat. There is nothing he can say in the face of such sincerity.
All he can do is nod. And surreptitiously wipe the corners of his eyes. Which are not wet. At all.
She busies herself eating her pasta and looking at Henry and checking her phone, and he’s eternally grateful for that.
After at least three long pulls, which empty his beer, he has himself together enough to return inquiries.
“Henry said you wanted to be a cop?”
She shakes her head. “That kid talks too much.” He merely raises an eyebrow at her until she starts to laugh. “Yes, I know, I’m a hypocrite.”
He nods. And waits.
When she goes on, her voice is quiet. “I did want to be a cop. But I never finished high school.”
He raises both eyebrows this time. “You do realize we can help you get your GED, right? I mean, you just mentioned it yourself.”
She shrugs. “I also did a stint in jail. They frown on that when you apply to the Academy.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been in jail?”
“Juvie. But my sentence extended past my 18th birthday, and so my records were never sealed.” She bites her lip. He’s learning that it’s a sign of extreme discomfort. And shame. “And I had Henry while I was inside. So when I got out I had no skills, no diploma, a record, and a newborn. Not exactly ideal circumstances.”
He wants to slap himself for making his own story into a tale of woe, because what she’s letting peek through is so much worse than anything he’s ever had to go through.
“What about your family?” It’s a whisper. His voice is not working.
She smiles. It’s self-deprecating. “No family. System kid.”
He can’t stop himself from taking her hand. She lets him. “I am so sorry, Emma. How on earth did you---- just how?”
Still that self-deprecating smile. “The usual way, I guess. Slow and cumbersome. We lived in a shelter at first. I didn’t know what to do - Henry was so little, and I just--- I had---”
She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and from the corner of the couch comes Henry’s voice. “She became a superhero. That’s what happened.” He fixes Killian with something close to a death glare.
Emma throws her head back and laughs a watery laugh.
“Not quite kid. You know I lucked out.” She looks at Henry and then back at Killian. “I applied for a desk job with a PI and he didn’t mind that I came with a baby. He was really cool about it. Said it didn’t hamper my ability to file and answer phones if I brought the kid to work. Saved my life.”
“David’s cool like that,” comes Henry’s voice again.
Killian feels a small spike of something that’s dangerously close to jealousy.
Jealousy?
He shakes his head at himself.
Meanwhile Emma turns to her son, and her voice grows firm. “Henry David Swan, either come join the conversation or stay where you are and read. I’m done with the peanut gallery.”
Henry rolls his eyes, but then goes back to his book.
Henry David Swan . She named her son after this man. The jealousy spikes again, and Killian has to take a deep breath and tell himself to get a grip.
“Anyway, once Henry started kindergarten, David introduced me to bail bonds. I’ve been tracking skips ever since. It’s not exactly nine to five - as you may have noticed - but it keeps a roof over our heads.”
Emma looks at him again and squares her shoulders as if for battle. “That’s thanks to you, too, you know. You’ve saved us from getting evicted more than once.”
From getting evicted . This is not a problem Killian has had to deal with. Ever.
His lovely academic existence in a faraway country has never forced him to confront nor contemplate not having a place to live.
And what has he contributed that was so great? Watched her son for a few hours? Provided a few meals?
“It was nothing, love.”
She squirms, but her eyes stay clear. “Yeah, well, you did. David used to watch Henry after school, but he’s married now and they have a newborn, so we started coming here instead.”
The spike of jealousy subsides so fast, Killian almost laughs at himself.
Emma sighs. “I can’t leave Henry alone at night, so I try to meet all the skips I bring in for Happy Hour somewhere, and then I try to make it back here as fast as I can, but you’ve seen yourself I don’t always make it. And I know he’s safe here. So--- thank you.”
There is that sincere thanks again. He is powerless before it. He just looks at her until she takes another sip of her beer and breaks the spell, and then starts the long and laborious process of getting Henry away from his book and ready to leave.
It takes a while.
When they’re about to walk out, he has gathered his thoughts enough to stop her in the doorway. Henry is already bounding down the front steps, while they stand arrested, his hand on her arm. She is warm, and solid, and she doesn’t squirm away from his touch, even though she looks at him with something close to apprehension.
“It’s all right, Emma,” he says, and somehow he knows instinctively that this one time he has hit on exactly the right thing to say. “You’re not a burden, neither one of you. I like spending time with you both. It’s not a bother. It’s a joy.”
Her eyes get really shiny for a moment, and she clears her throat several times. In the end she just nods. “We have to get home,” she whispers, and he knows that there are many other things she wants to say, but can’t.
He’s grateful for it. One more sincere thanks and he’s liable to do something extremely stupid.
Like try to kiss her.
-/-
