I remember having a really tough time trying to connect this chapter to the sentiment I wanted to give off, but it came out great. Some of my favorite (and oldest) parts of writing are in this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it.
As always, thanks to @sotheylived, @shipsxahoy, @queen-icicle-fandom, and the crew over at @captainswanbigbang, who I will never be able to thank enough. But, most importantly, thanks to YOU. My mother would be appalled: you guys are all leaving wonderful comments and kudos and reblogging and whatever else and it's taken me eight chapters to thank you. My deepest apologies, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU
Rating: M
Content warning: Character death, some violent situations
FFnet/Ao3/Cover/Snapshots/Gifset
Chapter Eight
It’s way past her bedtime, especially knowing that Jones told her the Roger is leaving tomorrow at 5 a.m., which means she needs to be up by no later than four. But Emma’s let the laundry sit for too long as it is and now that it’s on her mind, she’s not going to sleep until it’s at least folded.
As she’s setting the last of Henry’s shirts on top of the dryer, all of the clean clothes ready to be put away, she hears hurried footsteps above her. Henry has been asleep for hours, so that either means that someone’s broken in - doubtful, but one can never be too sure - or something’s wrong with Henry.
Trying her best not to panic, Emma jogs upstairs to find the light beneath the bathroom door illuminated. She knocks cautiously. “Henry?” she murmurs. “Are you okay in there?”
Though there’s no verbal response, the knob does turn and click open a crack. Emma pushes in, unsure of what she’ll find.
Settling back into his position curled against the toilet, far too pale for her 10-year-old son in the middle of summer, Henry moans. Sweat beads on his brow and his eyes look hazy.
Without a second thought, Emma kneels down beside him, brushing matted hair away from his face. He’s burning up. Emma reaches beneath the sink and wets a washcloth, patting it to the cheek that doesn’t rest against the toilet seat.
“Mom,” Henry mumbles. “I don’t feel good.”
“I figured, kid.” She busies herself with running the cloth over his hair and down his arms. “Do you still feel like you’re going to throw up?”
Henry nods weakly before alarm widens his eyes. The simple movement must set off something, and he’s leaning over and into the toilet in the next blink. All Emma can do is run her hand up and down his back and wipe away the tears that follow in an effort to calm him down.
“It’s okay, kid, it’s gonna be alright.”
Sniffing, Henry swipes at his mouth. “I hate being sick,” he grumbles.
Emma chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I know.” She shifts her body so she can hold him a bit easier, comb her fingers through his hair.
Luckily for them both, Henry doesn’t get sick that often, but when he does, it’s an ordeal. One time, when he was about six, Henry contracted pneumonia and it nearly killed her. She had to take two weeks off to take care of him, and while she loved every minute she spent with her son and not with the random annoying crew she was with that month, the bills did not.
Eventually, Emma manages to maneuver Henry back into his room, a bucket at his bedside and a cup of ice on his table. He sleeps in fits and starts, his fever not yet broken.
She knows he’ll be okay - the doctors tell her he’s healthy at every check up - but it still worries her. Nobody was around when she was his age or younger to comfort her, offer her advice to settle her stomach, or spend the night making sure her fever wasn’t getting any worse. The only person she had as company was herself.
So Emma spends the night in his bed, Henry sinking into her side comfortably when he does manage to sleep. If she gets more than an hour of sleep tonight, she’ll consider it a win.
When her alarm goes off at four, Emma gets up silently and prepares for the day like a zombie. She almost takes her phone into the shower, the heat of the water shocking her system with one foot in and her fingers tapping away at a text asking Ruby to come over and watch Henry. She responds quickly, already up to help Granny make breakfast.
I’ll have to help Granny in a min. H might have to hang here during my shift.
That’s fine , Emma replies. As long as he’s quarantined. Don’t think Granny wants to infect her customers.
By the time she somehow stumbles down to the dock, Emma’s awake enough to pass as slightly hungover. Thank god the water is calm or else today would’ve been a total waste in filming.
(She feels like a total waste. How she managed to return to the harbor unscathed and without falling overboard is a miracle.)
After a far-too-late night and an early morning of filming, Emma goes to Granny’s for a quick pick-me-up. The coffee there isn’t anything close to Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts or whatever big name chain she relied on in the city, but there’s a hint of something more pleasureable in the old woman’s drink that makes Emma think it tastes better. It’s, like, love or something silly like that.
“Hey there, sunshine,” Ruby greets her from behind the register.
“You know what I like,” Emma says on a sigh.
“I do indeed.” Requesting the required funds with an open hand, Ruby rings her up and shouts her order back to the kitchen. After they both hear Granny’s grumbled response, Ruby look back to Emma. “I’m assuming you’ll want to see your son as well.”
“That would be appreciated.”
With a crinkle of her nose, Ruby moves from behind the counter and heads through the door that connects to Granny’s inn. Emma knows that, on the days where Ruby’s in charge, Henry likes to spend his time in a bay window on the second floor of the bed and breakfast. It’s secluded, as she suggested, and it looks right over the harbor, something that she’s sure he finds comforting.
(Her son’s watching over her, or that’s what he’d try to tell her.)
Emma busies herself by looking over today’s specials - meatloaf and lasagna, hopefully not on the same plate - when the diner door opens and the bell above it rings merrily.
“Of all the gin joints.”
She’d know that voice anywhere. It makes her roll her eyes abnormally hard, actually spinning her vision around. She’s spent enough time with him in close quarters today as it is.
His voice must be boisterous enough to make it through the kitchen door to Granny, who yells back, “We don’t have gin here, boy.”
Despite her best efforts, Emma chuckles along with Jones. “Yes, Granny, I’m aware, it’s merely a saying, ” he amends.
After stifling the rest of her laughter, Emma faces him and gives him the stink-eye. “You say that like there’s another place I could grab coffee at this hour of the day.”
“There is.” Of course there is, she thinks. And of course he’s not there while she’s here. Of course. “The Busy Bee isn’t too far from here.”
Emma sighs dramatically, turning her attention back to the wall behind the counter she leans on. “Well, then I know where I’m going for all my coffee runs now.”
“Now, don’t be a spoilsport, Swan,” Jones tsks. “ Look, if you want to be alone, I’ll let you be.”
Thankfully, Ruby returns at this point with her to-go cup in hand and a styrofoam box in the other. “Here’s your coffee to go and your waffles,” Ruby says.
“I didn’t order waffles,” Emma corrects her.
“Henry did,” Ruby clarifies. “He’s just finishing up his chapter, so he’ll be down in a jiff.” She hands the coffee and container to Emma before twirling around and heading back to the kitchen.
Jones clicks his tongue behind her, causing Emma to roll her eyes again. “Ah, so it’s not just the coffee you’re here for,” he says. And then, sort of out of left field, he asks, “When will I get to meet the lad?”
Her internal monologue says never, but her mouth forms the words, “Not before he’s healthy enough to go back to camp.” At his perturbed look, she explains, “He’s sick. He had a fever and was throwing up last night.”
That seems to catch him off-guard. Jones’ eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Why did you come today?” he inquires.
“Because it’s my job?” It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s the breadwinner - the only one - in her house, which she still has to pay off, along with groceries and bills and rollback deals from Henry’s birthday presents. Money doesn’t come from trees.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he shakes his head. “We could’ve held out and gone tomorrow or promised not to do anything interesting today,” he tells her.
“No, that goes against the whole concept of reality TV.”
Jones scoffs and rolls his eyes, making Emma’s brow raise. “Come now, Swan, you and I both know you guys are going to edit the shit out of whatever you film. We’ve already got a pool on who’s going to be the prick of the show. My money’s on Victor.”
They’ve come to a lull in the conversation, Emma unsure of how to continue. He’s got a point: when all is said in done, not much reality goes into the reality show.
(And Jefferson was leaning toward making Whale the douchebag. He just lent himself to it so well.)
The moment comes to a close when Jones starts scrambling, his hands patting at all his pockets. He leans over the counter to grab one of the pens and pieces of paper by the register. Swiftly, he scribbles something across the paper and slips it into her hand.
Emma glances down at it, a line of numbers across the page. “What’s this?”
“The next time you need to be mother,” Jones says, pointing emphatically at the paper, “call me and we’ll figure out a plan of action for the day that works for both of us.” His expression softens to something Emma’s never seen before. “Your lad needs you, love. He was in your life before me and my crew came along and he’ll be in it long after we’ve parted ways. Never feel the need to put this job above your son.”
She can’t help the grin that crosses her lips at his words. “Thank you, Jones. Truly.” Folding the paper in half, Emma slips it into her pocket. She picks up her coffee and Henry’s waffles and takes a step toward the door. “And I’m just going to gloss over your move.”
“Move? What move?” Jones asks, one brow cocking up sharply.
“Using the opportunity to let me stay at home with my kid to give me your number.” Emma grins wider, her teeth peeking out to bite at her bottom lip. “Don’t think I’ll forget it.”
Mimicking her smile, she catches Jones’ tongue skim across his teeth. “Trust me, Swan. I don’t want you to.”
She rolls her eyes as her back runs into the diner door. “Goodbye, Jones.”
Just as she knew he would, Henry’s patiently waiting for her on the sidewalk outside the inn. He’s leaning against the fence, still entranced by whatever book he’s reading this time.
(She really is lucky that her son has taken to books and not technology when boredom hits. Sure, he loves his video games, but that’s something she can control. If Henry had a smartphone, Emma isn’t sure she would ever talk to him in person again.)
As she approaches, Henry shuts his book and smiles up at her. Silently, she hands her son his box of food. He opens it to make sure it’s what he wants, then takes a delighted whiff.
“Sorry, I got caught up talking to someone,” she explains.
“Who were you talking to?” Henry asks, turning toward home.
“A guy from work,” Emma says. At his raised brow, she rolls her eyes and wets her lips. “It’s the captain of the ship I work on.”
“Really?” His voice goes up an octave, he’s so thrilled. “Can I meet him?”
Emma shakes her head and ruffles his hair. “Maybe.”
“I’ll behave, I promise,” he pleads.
She chuckles. “It’s not you I’m worried about misbehaving.” Taking a sip of her coffee, Emma thinks on the idea. “Besides, you kind of met him. We were on his brother’s boat on the Fourth of July.”
“But I didn’t talk to him.” Of course he didn’t. Because she didn’t introduce her son to either of the Jones brothers and Henry knows better than to talk to strangers. “C’mon, Mom.”
“We’ll see,” Emma sighs. And then, as mothers do when they tire of trying to explain adult dynamics to their children, she changes the subject. “How are you feeling? Better?”
“Mom.” He holds up the takeaway box. “Waffles cure anything.”
She laughs outright, and pulls Henry’s shoulders into her chest. “How could I be so silly?” She kisses the top of his head and pushes open the gate to their house.
