Not long ago @katie-dub asked me if I was planning to write a Christmas fic. I said sure, I’m doing the CS Secret Santa. And then I thought about it, and I thought actually maybe I’ll write a little something for Katie because she is a delightful human, a kind and supportive friend, and one of the people I feel honoured to have got to know over the past year, and she deserves every nice thing. And then I started to think about what she might like and I had IDEAS which of course soon grew far beyond my original concept. And then @thisonesatellite egged me on (with REAL EGGS) and here is the result: an angry and broken Killian, a struggling single mother Emma, a precious wee Henry, and the healing power of Christmas magic.
Katie, my dear, I can’t begin to tell you how much your support has meant to me these past few months. You are the loveliest and most loving person, and I hope you enjoy this little offering 💕
SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.
All it takes is a little Christmas magic.
On AO3
Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed.
@kmomof4 @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm @snowbellewells @stahlop @mariakov81 @courtorderedcake @jonirobinson64 @tiganasummertree @ohmightydevviepuu @shardminds @jennjenn615 @superchocovian
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PART ONE: THE PAST
He’s still broken when he meets her. Broken and bitter and angry. So, so very angry, the kind of angry that lodges in a man’s chest just below his heart and and rots there. Rots, but doesn’t rot away. The putrid tendrils of it twine and twist through him like the tentacles of the kraken he heard tales of as a boy. They fuse to his bones and mix with his blood and he welcomes them. His is a fury born of betrayal, by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in, and it’s all he has left of his life. It’s all he remembers how to feel.
He’s come to this place for escape, for peace, but there’s precious little of either to be found. Not here. Not in this neighbourhood of once-lovely houses built tall and proud and so sturdy their ruin takes decades, a slow attrition of cracked windows and crumbling corners and decay that sinks into the walls and consumes them from within. But it’s the best he can afford on what he has that’s his, and he finds that the atmosphere suits him. A broken place for a broken man.
He doesn’t have to work so for a while he doesn’t, spending his days walking the streets of the city on feet that carry him eventually, inevitably, to the docks. And there he stands, sometimes for hours, watching the horizon and the boats that move across it, stewing in his bitterness.
He prefers to do his drinking alone on the ratty sofa that doubles as his bed, his only company the blinking neon and the traffic noise, and the smell of pot smoke that wafts from the apartment below. His thoughts are tumultuous then, memories of writhing seas and wind and waves and Liam, of courtrooms and lawyers and just accept the payout, Commander Jones. They’re the bloody Royal Navy, they have resources you can’t hope to match.
Sometimes though his solitude becomes oppressive, a heavy darkness that sucks the air from his lungs and drives him back onto the streets where he breathes the filthy smog in heaving gulps and then again he walks, among the crowds but not of them, until he finds a bar where people look like they won’t ask questions.
It’s on one of those days—of all the good days in the year on Christmas Eve—that as he trudges through the greying slush barely a block from his apartment his eye falls upon a door he feels sure he’s never seen before. It’s not in any way a special door, plain brown wood and a foggy window with writing he can’t quite make out, but a jolly little wreath is hung upon it and though he feels about as far removed from the Christmas spirit as any human creature could be, he finds himself pushing it open and going inside.
The bar he enters is small and worn in the way of well-loved things, the gouged wood of the tables polished to a soft gleam and the cracks in the leather seats carefully mended. Tall rows of bottle-laden shelves line the brick wall behind a carved oak bar that looks far too ancient for this modern land. It takes him all in a rush and flutter of memories back to the England of his childhood, to his mother still untouched by disease and his father not yet embittered by loss, he and Liam free from care as children should be, sneaking from their beds on Christmas Eve and down the back staircase to hide in a toasty corner of the pub and wait for Father Christmas.
He always awoke on Christmas morning in his bed, presents piled at the foot of it. A small pile, he knows now, but big to his young eyes, and he would wonder aloud how Santa managed to get him and Liam back to bed and deliver their presents as well. And Liam, six years older, would scoff and tell him don’t be stupid, Santa can do anything.
“What can I get you?”
The question snaps him back to the present and he realises he’s taken a seat on a leather topped stool at the bar. The woman behind it is smiling at him, a smile he’s certain she gives every patron but its bright warmth soothes him all the same.
“Rum,” he replies.
“Any particular kind?”
“The cheapest you’ve got.”
She grabs a bottle of a brand he knows is far from the cheapest and pours out a generous measure, places it on a cocktail napkin and slides it in front of him with a look that dares him to make something of it. He accepts her kindness with the most gracious nod he can manage, saluting her with the glass before taking a sip. It goes down smooth and he closes his eyes on a sigh, savouring the spicy richness and mellow burn, a far cry from the second cousin to paint stripper he’s grown accustomed to.
“Thank you,” he says.
She smiles again. “Merry Christmas.”
He sips the rum slowly as he falls back into his memories, the earlier ones of brighter days he hasn’t thought of in years, so long they almost feel like they belong to someone else. To the person he was when he was happy, and it surprises him to recall that he was happy, that despite what came later he was once a part of a loving family. It saddens him, how thoroughly he’s forgotten this. A melancholy sort of sadness that makes him long for a different life.
And that, he thinks, is why he forgot.
The moment his glass is empty a new one appears at his elbow; although he didn’t speak to the lovely bartender it seems she anticipated him.
He doesn’t want to stare at her and yet she draws his gaze. There’s a light within her, a warmth that illuminates her golden hair and makes her green eyes glow. He watches from the corner of his eye as she goes about her job, pouring shots and pulling pints, always with a smile and a kind word. She brightens everything she touches, leaves it a bit better than she found it.
She’s magic, he thinks, then shakes off the foolish thought.
He’s deep into his second glass when she pulls a phone from her back pocket and her smile falters as she reads the screen; her light seems to dim and flicker, and without a word she turns and runs from the bar.
She returns moments later with a small boy in her arms, a lad who can’t be much more than three or four. He’s sound asleep against her shoulder and she cradles him protectively as she confronts the dark-haired man who’s emerged from the back office wearing a stern frown, arms crossed over his chest.
“Emma, you know you can’t have him in here,” the man says.
“What do you want me to do, August, I can’t leave him home alone!” she implores. “He can sleep on the sofa in your office, he won’t be any trouble—”
“We can’t have child unsupervised in the bar—”
“He’s not unsupervised if you’re in the office—”
“I’m heading home in half an hour.”
“August, please—”
“I can look after the lad.” He’s not sure what prompts the offer, perhaps because he’s been recalling his own childhood and the patrons in his father’s pub who never minded him under their feet, who entertained him with tales of their lives on the sea and who, he’s come to realise, lifted some of the burden of childcare from his parents’ shoulders so they could do their jobs. Regardless of where it came from, he means it. It seems the least he can do for this remarkable woman.
The woman—Emma—turns to him with a look of surprise. “Would you?”
“If the only obstacle is not having anyone to sit with him, then yes, it would be my pleasure.”
Emma fixes him him with a hard, searching look, and he is conscious of being measured and assessed and weighed in the balance as never before. Then she nods. “What’s your name?”
“Killian Jones.”
“Well, Killian Jones, you’d be saving my neck.”
He smiles. It feels strange on his face after so long an absence, but also right. “It’s a neck worth saving, love.”
She laughs. “I’m Emma Swan, and this is Henry. We just live across the street, if you could—”
“Of course.” He grabs his coat and follows Emma as she heads for the door.
“August, I’ll be back in fifteen,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Make it ten.”
—
The cold outside is bitter, biting. It comes as a shock after the cosy warmth of the bar, and he’s glad Emma was being truthful when she said she lived just across the street. Across it and a bit to the left in a building much like Killian’s own, with solid brickwork and elegantly wrought cornices obscured by grime and years of neglect, its pointing crumbling away under the weight of creeping moss. She leads him through the outer door—its lock is broken, he observes—and up a chilly staircase several flights to a door where he’s relieved to see that the lock is both sturdy and new. He’s prepared to bet Emma installed it herself.
She unlocks it, balancing Henry on her hip in a practiced manoeuvre, and leads him into a tiny apartment that from his cursory observations strikes him as far too familiar for his liking. He follows her into the bedroom where she lays the boy on a child-sized bed in one corner of the cramped room. There is an adult single bed in another corner, along with a sturdy bureau that takes up most of the remaining space and a rickety chair draped in clothes. A few toys litter the floor around Henry’s bed, and Killian is impressed by the way Emma navigates around them even in the dark.
She tucks the blankets around her son then gently shakes his shoulder until he wakes.
“Mom?” Henry murmurs groggily. “Has Santa come?”
“Not yet, baby, but he will. You just have to go back to sleep first.”
“You woke me up,” Henry points out. Killian feels a grin tug at his lips. Clever lad.
Emma’s mouth quirks as well. “I know, but Mrs Lucas had an emergency so Killian here is going to look after you until I finish work,” she says. “Is that okay?”
Henry blinks at Killian and once again he feels his measure being taken by one who knows how to take it.
“Okay,” says Henry.
“Good. Just go back to sleep, baby, and if you wake up again Killian will be here.”
“’kay Mom.” Henry’s eyelids are already drooping. Emma touches Killian lightly on the arm and indicates with a slight jerk of her head that he should follow her again. They retreat to the living room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind them.
“If you need me just call the bar,” Emma says. “The number’s on the fridge and I can be here immediately.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, love.”
She looks at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He wonders what she sees, and what she thinks of it.
“Thank you for doing this, Killian,” she says. “Truly.”
His first impulse is to shrug away her thanks but something deep within him refuses to allow it. She doesn’t often ask for help, of this he’s certain, and although he has no notion of what might have led her to do so he’s deeply honoured that she’s asked it of him. Her gratitude deserves acknowledgement.
“You’re welcome, Emma,” he replies with another rusty attempt at a smile, rubbing at a spot just below his right ear. “Um, hadn’t you better get back to work? I imagine that boss of yours is counting the seconds until your return.”
“Probably.” The corners of her lips dance in amusement. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“I’ll be here.”
—
After she leaves he finds himself at a bit of a loss, unaccustomed to being alone in other people’s living spaces. He doesn’t want to turn on the television for fear of waking Henry, and Emma doesn’t have much in the way of books. With no other means of passing the time at hand he wanders around her apartment, not wishing to snoop but intensely curious about this young woman and her son.
The curiosity is new.
Their place is on the surface much like his own, the run-down building, the un-insulated windows, the mould in the corners and the general overlay of grime that no amount of scrubbing could ever shift. It’s grim, the sort of grimness that creeps its way into the soul and slowly sucks it dry.
And yet. There’s plastic on Emma’s windows, a thin film of it attached with double-sided tape and fitted with a hairdryer. Do-it-yourself insulation. She’s built shelves that hide the cracks in the wall and decorated them, with candles she actually burns and small framed pictures—some of which are clearly Henry’s work—plus some other little knickknacks and art projects of his. In the corner is a small Christmas tree decorated with coloured lights and a few bright baubles jumbled alongside ornaments made of uncooked pasta, glued in the shape of stars and painted gold, and cut-up paper snowflakes. She’s creative and clever and so is her lad, and the effect is far homier and more festive than Killian would ever have imagined it could be.
She’s trying, this Emma. There’s not much she can do with a place like this, but still she tries, and there’s valour in that effort. It brings a lump to Killian’s throat. How long it seems since he stopped trying.
He jumps as a noise comes from the bedroom, a small cry that lengthens into a wail.
“Mamaaa,” cries Henry.
Killian rushes into the bedroom and then stops, unsure of what to do. He sits on the edge of Henry’s bed, his hand hovering over the small form huddled beneath the blankets.
“Henry? Lad, it’s Killian. Do you remember me?”
Henry’s tearstained face appears and he snuffles, and rubs the back of his hand across his nose. He stares at Killian for a moment then nods. “I remember,” he says.
Slowly Killian lets his hand fall on the boy’s shoulder, rubbing it in a way he hopes is soothing. “Your mum’s still at work, but I’m here. What’s the matter?”
“I had a dream.”
“A scary one?”
“Yeah.” Henry’s lip quivers. He looks so distraught, and Killian surprises himself by sliding further onto the bed and reaching out his arm. Henry dives immediately beneath it and snuggles against Killian’s chest, burying his face in it and sniffling some more. Killian swallows past the lump in his throat, breathes through the squeezing pressure in his chest at the feel of the small body pressed against his, at the unbelievable honour of this show of trust.
“Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he asks.
“No,” says Henry, the word muffled against Killian's sweater but no less decisive for it.
“Oh. Erm... shall I tell you a story then?”
“Do you know any stories?” Henry looks up at him, wide-eyed.
“Aye. Sailors are renowned storytellers.”
“Are you a sailor?”
“I was.”
“Okay.” Henry snuggles closer, adjusts himself so that he can look at Killian while still resting against his shoulder. “Tell me a sailor story. Please.”
Killian weaves him a tale of a ship lost upon uncharted oceans, of a sailor with a broken heart who in a fit of despair cursed a true lovers’ knot and flung it overboard, which heedless act awakened an eldritch beast from out the briny deep. He tells of how the brave sailors fought against the beast to save their ship, and of how they succeeded, though at the cost of their souls.
It’s rather a dark tale for a child perhaps, but one he loved himself at Henry’s age. He can remember sitting before the fire in the pub, curled in Liam’s lap listening, as wide-eyed and rapt as Henry is now, to the old and weathered sailors as they wove it skilfully around him. Henry is enthralled but as the story unfolds his eyelids grow heavier and his body more relaxed, and by the time Killian has finished recounting the sailors’ terrible fate the boy is sound asleep.
Killian tries to ease him back into his bed but Henry clings to him, tiny fist tight on his sweater. With a sigh, Killian settles down and makes himself as comfortable as possible on the small bed, cradling Henry securely beneath his arm and tucking the blankets around them both. He closes his eyes, just to rest them, he thinks, and moments later he falls soundly asleep.
I Am Disappeared, by @blessed-but-distressed. Summary: CS AU Two-shot. Bartender Emma. Musician Killian. Emma watches on with glee when the insufferably cocky lead singer of the night's band strikes out in her bar. Maybe she even... helps. But at closing time, with a winter storm rolling in, she realizes she has also cost him his only chance at a warm bed for the night. Feeling slightly guilty, she reluctantly invites him upstairs. Read on tumblr here (ch. 1) and here (ch. 2) and on AO3 here.
Another classic in my book! Originally, when I saw this I thought “oh, like the song” only to discover yes exactly like the song!!! That’s a very good thing. It’s a great song. It also made for a great little scavenger hunt for me, looking for bits I recognized from the source song (”terrified of [his] own insides”).
I love the writing in this too - the humor, the cadence, the plot. There’s great snatches of humor here (‘"You could still be an axe-murderer," she hedged, her attention focused on her boots now, as she compacted the snow around her into a neat semi-circle. "Or a Republican."’), and I still cackle over the very pointed opinions about glitter lipstick.
This is a great story about strangers thrown together by circumstances, weather, and karma, and I think it’s a perfect recommendation for @csficrecmonday!
& I can’t let you go,
your hand prints on my soul;
It’s like your eyes are liquor, it’s like your body is gold.
Handprints On My Soul by @hookedonapirate; rated M
↳ CSLB 2018 // read here: tumblr | ao3 | ff // @captainswanbigbang
Summary: Leaving home and a career as a roller coaster engineer on a whim with his six year old daughter was one of the last things Killian Jones wanted to do. But after falling in love with someone he’d met online to find out he’d been catfished, it seemed like the best idea. It seems even more appealing when Emma Swan, musician and bartender at a charming Irish Pub, enters his life… even if his brother and daughter have to be the ones to help him realize it.
Emma Swan is in a relationship with Neal Cassidy but things are not going so well anymore. Then she meets Killian Jones. Can he save her from the monster Neal is becoming or is it to late for Emma to find true love?
When Emma, a single mom with two jobs, meets Killian, an actor in town for the next few months, sparks seem to fly. The only problem is that Killian failed to mention his occupation, leaving Emma oblivious to the life he truly leads. What will happen when the truth is revealed?
Emma is a tough, sarcastic bartender who replaces love with hard work and is perfectly fine with that lifestyle. Until she meets the cocky singer hired to play in the pub she works in.
Emma Swan is in a tightspot. Her parents decide to surprise her with a visit to meet her new boyfriend and she has only minutes to find the perfect guy to win over her parents
