Summary: All you want is to be with Jefferson, but he pushes you away anyway, because he knows heartbreak will be insufferable for the pair of you.
Warnings:
Wc: 976
A/N: chose the prompt "I thought immortality was a blessing, but now I realize it's the price I pay for loving you." from this prompt list
Pairing: Vampire! Jefferson x Human! F! Reader
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for two years oof.
Read on ao3!
The night was still, too still. The air around you carried a weight that pressed against your chest with every breath. You stood in the clearing of the woods, your eyes locked on him—the man who had once been your everything. Jefferson.
But that was before the bite. Before he became something different, something darker. A vampire, bound to the night, cursed by the very immortality that he once sought as a blessing. The same immortality that now felt like a curse to you both.
His eyes, once filled with warmth and affection, now seemed distant, like a shadow had fallen over him. He still looked the same as he did before-- handsome, and undoubtedly yours—but there was something hollow in him now, a void that had only grown deeper with the passing years.
"You're not the same," you whispered, your voice trembling as you stepped closer to him.
He didn't move, didn't react at first. He was standing there, as if the centuries had worn him down to this very moment. The vampire inside him fought against the human part, the man you once knew. The part of him that loved you was fading, buried beneath layers of regret and pain.
"I told you it would be this way," Jefferson said softly, his voice hoarse, as if the words had been trapped inside him for far too long. "You shouldn’t have gotten involved with me."
"Don't say that," you pleaded, the pain in your chest deepening. "You’re not a monster. You were never a monster."
His eyes flickered with something—guilt? Sorrow? He shook his head, the weight of immortality pressing down on him. "I thought immortality was a blessing," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper in the wind, "but now I realize it's the price I pay for loving you."
You swallowed hard, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. "What are you saying, Jefferson? You think this—us—is a mistake?"
His gaze softened, but the sadness in his eyes was too much to bear. "I thought it was a gift. I thought it meant I could stay with you forever. That I could be the man you deserved. But the longer I live, the more I see... the more I understand the price I paid. It's not just my soul that’s been cursed. It's you, too."
Your heart shattered as the words fell from his lips. You too. That was the part that broke you. The thought that he might be right, that his immortality had already cost you so much more than you realized. His curse was now your burden.
"You're wrong," you whispered, stepping closer, reaching out to him. "I chose this, Jefferson. I chose you. I don't care how long we have. I don't care about the price."
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a force that made you flinch. His cold touch sent a shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t just from the chill of his skin. It was the unspoken truth in his eyes that pierced you more than anything else ever could.
"You don’t understand," he growled, his voice low and ragged. "I can’t let you go through this. You will age, you will die. And I will be here... alone."
The weight of those words hit you like a wave, crashing over you, drowning you in the inevitability of what was coming. The truth that had been lingering in the air for so long, but that you’d refused to acknowledge—Jefferson was no longer human, and he could never truly be with you, not the way you wanted. Not the way you needed.
"I can't watch you die, Y/N," Jefferson said, his voice breaking slightly. "I can't be the one to live forever, knowing I'll have to bury you over and over again, watching you fade away while I stay the same. It's the price of loving you. It's my price. And it's one I can't pay."
A sob caught in your throat, and you pulled your wrist from his grasp, the finality of his words cutting deeper than any wound could. "You’re wrong," you said, your voice shaking, trying to force the words past the lump in your throat. "I don’t care if you’re immortal. I don’t care if I’ll age and die and leave you. I just want to be with you, Jefferson. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if fighting some internal battle. When he opened them again, there was nothing but cold determination in his gaze. "I can’t let you do this. I can’t be the reason you lose everything. I can’t be the cause of your death."
You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched his face, as if trying to make him feel the love you still had for him. "You are not the reason I will die, Jefferson. You are the reason I’m alive right now. You—we—still have time. Please don’t push me away."
For a moment, there was silence, heavy and thick with the weight of everything unspoken. But then, his gaze hardened, and he stepped back, the distance between you growing like an insurmountable chasm. "I can’t let you live in this world with me," he said, his voice cold and distant. "Not like this. Not when I know how it will end. I won't drag you down with me."
And with that, he turned and vanished into the night, leaving you standing there, heartbroken and alone, with only the echo of his words hanging in the air.
Immortality was a blessing, but now I realize it’s the price I pay for loving you.
And you knew then, as you stood there in the darkness, that he was right. But you didn’t know if you could survive it.
The third story in the Where There's Smoke, There's Fire universe is officially in progress! It's titled:
Smoke and Mirrors
If you've missed this storyverse, thank you so much for sticking with me. It's been a loooong while, so I'm not sure how many of my wonderful readers are still around, but I'll be posting this new story on FanFiction.net and AO3, just like I did with the first two stories.
This installment introduces a brand-new cast of characters, a fresh mystery, and a little more fantasy woven into the world. I can't wait for you to meet everyone!
Please keep an eye out for the release! I mainly wanted to pop in, say hello, and see if anyone is still out there and interested in returning to this universe with me.
The first story in this series was published back in 2015, which honestly feels unbelievable. To everyone who read, commented on, and loved the first two stories—thank you. Your support meant more than you know, and it's one of the biggest reasons I'm excited to come back and tell another story.
“I’m innocent Miss.Swan, you have to believe me. I need your help.”/ “I believe you. I will do everything in my power to help you, I promise.”
“I know that look I know her, I believe her” Swan Queen lawyer au. Regina is accused of a crime she didn’t commit and the only person who is willing to and able to help her is Emma Swan. Can she save Regina, can she prove her innocence and can they live happily ever after? All of this and much, much more.
When the local sheriff goes missing and Regina is accused of murder. Everyone in town treats her like the town pariah. Until attorney Emma Swan swings into town and promises to represent her. After slowly getting to know her not only does Emma realize that she is innocent but that she’s being framed but the bigger question is by who, and most importantly why?
Summary: It was supposed to be simple: burgers, a play, and two neighbours who are absolutely not dating. But New Year's Eve had other plans.
Tagging: @anmylica, @deckerstarblanche, @elfiola, @goforlaunchcee, @jrob64, @kmomof4 , @pirateswhore, @stahlop , @teamhook, @tiganasummertree , @undercaffinatednightmare, @xarandomdreamx, @zaharadessert It's been a WHILE, so do let me know if you want removal from this tag-list.
The thing about New Year’s Eve is that it’s meant to be fun and, like many things that are meant to be fun, it often isn’t. After the year she’d had, Emma was more than ready to slam the door on it—preferably with a bottle of wine, her couch, and a queue of movies until sleep claimed her. No glitter, no countdown, no forced cheer. Just a touch of tipsiness and a lot of men running toward chaos.
Killian refused to let her do so in peace. Because, of course, he did. Her last few months—maybe her entire life—had been bleak, except for one bright spot. Or maybe, annoyance? Killian Jones, her entirely too attractive and very single neighbour.
Somehow, a mislaid package became recurring Friday dinners, then a few absolutely-not-dates but "shared-outings", and now most nights ended with trading stories over an ever-evolving menu of nightcaps. (Emma’s current favourite was a vanilla-spiced Amarula chai latte that was too delicious to be real. Killian was foolishly hailing the superiority of hot buttered rum.)
It was during one of these evenings, tipsy from her second mug of very heavily spiked chai, that Killian told her she had plans for the evening before the new year. He said it just like that—smooth, quiet, lowercase. It slipped by her defences.
His soft accent carried her through “her plans”—a play, a few drinks, and maybe fireworks. No alarm bells - a typical not-date night out for the two of them. His grin should have stirred something in her. Well, something other than that soft, bright warmth curling around her, lulling her into safety, drawing her focus away from the word fireworks.
Even as he said, “Next week, Wednesday?” her defences refused to defend. Likely because the time between Christmas Eve and the Monday She Returned to Work had blurred into one hazy stretch. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t until now—staring at the ticket he sent to her phone—that she realized the date: 31-Dec. That man had tricked her.
“Bloody New Year, bloody Eve,” Emma muttered angrily at the text. The phone offered no response, which did absolutely nothing to improve her mood. “Stupid blue-eyed Irishman.”
She glared at her closet and wondered—not for the first time—what did one wear on a not-date with a neighbour that one really wanted to date, maybe was already dating?, without making it overtly obvious that they were maybe more invested in the whatever-ship than said neighbour?
Emma stared at the red dress peeking from the back of her closet. Cut and fitted in all the right places, it would steal his gaze for the entire night. Her fingers brushed the fabric, and her pulse jumped. She pictured his eyes—blue and sharp—tracking the line of the dress, lingering. Heat curled low in her stomach, traitorous and insistent.
It was a cold night.
And such a bold statement didn’t feel right for them. Not yet anyway.
She let the dress slip back into shadow, exhaling.
Comfort, she told herself. Something safe. Something that wouldn’t betray how much she wanted him to look at her and see...nope. Not going there.
Sighing, she pulled jeans, worn-in like a favourite pair of leather gloves, over a pair of lined tights. She shrugged into a soft sweater, quickly executing a French tuck—for style, obviously—and completed the look with a pair of boots before covering the entire outfit with a wool coat, scarf, and cap.
Emma eyed the fridge, debating whether to eat before meeting Killian for the show. Five o’clock was early for dinner, but her grumbling stomach didn’t care. She stared at the leftovers, waiting to be tempted one way or the other, when her pocket vibrated:
Burgers and drinks at 17:30.
With that sorted, she grabbed her wallet and steeled herself for a fun New Year’s Eve out.
--- --- --- ---
As Emma stepped off the train, she realized Killian hadn’t included a location. When she saw him waiting at the station entrance, she understood he hadn’t needed to.
She was wrestling with the meaning of that—did it even have a meaning?—when his gaze found hers through the crowd, his lips pulling into a relieved smile. Her stomach flipped, and she hated how easy it was—how one look from him could undo the careful knots she’d tied around her feelings.
She crossed to him, and he pulled her into a hug, his coat brushing her cheek. She caught the familiar cedar-and-salt scent before he pulled away. His warmth lingered as her thoughts drifted. “You look fantastic, Swan,” he said easily, eyes flicking down to her jeans and boots before meeting hers again. “Casual suits you.”
She rolled her eyes, but her stomach executed a complicated little flip. Luckily, Killian hadn't noticed. He was already talking, his voice soft and familiar, spilling stories from his day as they headed toward the burger joint he hadn’t needed to name. Her heels clicked in time with his steps, grounding her even as her mind tried to wander.
“And you? What’s new in your world?” Killian turned the full force of his attention to her. That was their pattern, and yet it always caught her off-guard. He would start pouring out stories the second they hugged, as if he stored these thoughts just for her, then he’d give the floor to her - eager for her stories. Her life felt too dull for that kind of focused listening
Half-panicked, she opted for a graceful little side-step, “I am feeling adventurous, burger of the day?”
Killian’s surprised laugh made her relax again, so she continued. “Sure, the Pesto-lence burger was not the best idea, but you have to admire the commitment to the bit.”
“Do you?”
“Every day that lovely, kind of awful, man wakes up, decides on a pun and creates a burger around it. You must have some admiration for the tenacity.”
“Must I?” Killian teased, “how do you know he comes up with the pun first?”
“Well, obviously.” Emma replied.
“Obviously.” Killian agreed as he guided her into the little hole in the wall they had come to frequent. Leroy greeted them in his usual manner, a small upturn in his frown and a grunt, “order when you’re ready and sit wherever you want.”
“It is the charming service that has us returning, again and again, Roy.”
Emma suppressed any reaction to that comment so Leroy would give her extra curly fries with her order as she chose their favourite booth. Because people who were neighbours and absolutely not dating had things like shared patterns, usuals, and favourites.
She pushed away the thought, I’m hungry and it’s making me sentimental about normal things, and ordered a Blue Year’s Eve burger and a milkshake.
“You don’t even like blue cheese,” Killian said after Leroy left with their orders.
“New Year, New Emma.”
“Hmm, what needs to be new about Swan?”
“I’m embracing risk. Or something to shake things up.”
“Risk?” Killian’s grin widened. “Ordering a questionable burger is your idea of living dangerously?”
“Baby steps,” she said, deadpan.
Leroy came out with their milkshakes and fries. He long stopped telling them they would spoil their burgers and just conformed to their insistence that fries and milkshakes were appetizers to be enjoyed prior to their burgers. The moment the baskets of fries hit the table, Killian plopped a generous handful of sweet potato fries in her basket as she added a small pile of curly fries to his. The exchange was automatic, and unequal.
Killian glanced at her plate, lips twitching. “That’s all I get?”
“Proportional generosity,” Emma replied, biting into her pile of sweet potato fries.
“Sounds like something you’d put in a contract.”
“Yeah? We need a contract. Blanket-sharing rules need to be signed and notarized.”
“It is MY blanket,” Killian defended passionately, humour dancing in his eyes.
“It lives with me, and possession is very influential in cases like this one.”
“No. I bought it and—”
“You cannot argue that your purchase of the blanket outweighs the connection we have formed.”
“What connection—it is a blanket.”
“Exactly! To you, it is just a blanket. Which is why the court is ruling in my favour should you refuse to reach an agreement with me and put it in the contract.”
“Impossible.” Killian muttered, reaching for a curly fry from her hoard of fries. She brushed his hand aside, absolutely not noticing the way warmth lingered where they touched.
“Oh my god,” Killian’s voice was so honestly stunned that Emma followed his gaze to the two plates Leroy was carrying to the table. One held a perfectly normal cheeseburger, but the other…
Killian’s brows shot up. “That’s… blue.”
Emma blinked. “The pun isn’t blue cheese, then?”
Leroy set the plates before them and left quietly. Like he hadn’t just dropped the most ridiculous plate in existence.
“Not even close,” Killian said, grinning as he leaned in for a better look. “That’s so much food colouring. And is that—” He flicked the tiny NYE party popper perched on top. “—a party favour? Oh, streamers too? Swan, your burger comes with decorations.”
Emma laughed, half in shock. “It’s a whole party. On a bun.”
“Leroy outdid himself,” Killian said solemnly. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
“Neither did I,” Emma admitted, picking up the burger like it might explode. “If this kills me, tell people I died embracing risk.”
Killian smirked. “Baby steps, Swan. Baby steps.”
They ate, trading commentary on Leroy’s latest pun and the questionable wisdom of putting pesto on beef. Killian told a story about a disastrous New Year’s in Dublin—something about a broken guitar and a pub singalong gone wrong—and Emma found herself laughing so hard she nearly spilled her milkshake.
Killian reached across the table, steadying the glass with one hand. “Easy there. I wouldn’t want to miss out on dessert.”
Emma rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, eyes glinting, “you seem to rather enjoy suffering.”
She didn’t answer that—just stole one of his fries in retaliation. He let her, grinning like he’d planned it all along.
By the time they finished, night had fully cloaked the city. Killian checked his watch. “We should head out if we’re going to make curtain.”
Emma wiped her hands on a napkin, suddenly aware of the warmth in her cheeks. “Right.”
Killian stood, offering his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was warm, steady, and entirely too easy to hold onto.
“Come along gosling,” he said.
“Cygnet,” Emma corrected on reflex, but she was smiling as they stepped into the cold night together.
--- --- --- ---
The play ended in a flurry of applause, velvet curtains sweeping closed as the house lights rose. Emma stretched, rising out of her seat and feeling the pleasant ache of muscles moving after sitting too long. Killian leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.
“Not bad,” he murmured, voice low enough to make her pulse skip. “Though I still say Act Two could’ve used a sword fight.”
Emma snorted, tugging on her coat. “You think everything needs a sword fight.”
“Not everything,” he said, grin flashing as he held the door for her. “Just the boring bits.”
Outside, the city was alive—music spilling from pubs, laughter curling through the cold night air. Emma shoved her hands into her pockets, boots loud against the cobblestones as they fell into step. The river wasn’t far, but the crowd thickened as they neared it, a tide of sequins, beanies, and scarves moving toward the fireworks.
Killian’s shoulder brushed hers, casual, but it sent a spark racing down her spine. She told herself it was the chill. Definitely the chill.
“Do you know any traditions around midnight on New Year’s?” she asked, aiming for casual.
Killian tilted his head, “Fireworks and drinking until you black out?”
“Sure, that too.” She laughed, nerves fizzing under her skin. “But the thing you’re doing at midnight is meant to be what you want most for the upcoming year. So, some couples kiss at midnight; parents with young kids sleep…”
Killian’s brow furrowed, thoughtful. “No, don’t know that one.”
“Hmm,” Emma responded. They navigated the streets, thick with people. This city was home, so she forgot at times that it was also an international city. It was impossible to forget that tonight. People were crammed everywhere, laughing and drinking. The atmosphere was light, happy, and maybe it would be fertile ground for new beginnings.
Emma swallowed hard, “That was my indirect way of asking for a kiss,” her voice sounded too quiet and too loud at the same time. This time Killian did not respond.
He continued to lead her through the crowd, focused on finding the absolute best spot to see the fireworks. And still something big, and a little scary, kept building in her chest.
“Oh no! We didn’t bring the champagne! I could probably find a shop?” The thought was sudden but alleviated some of her nerves.
“I left some in your fridge yesterday, remember? We can have some when we get back home.” He was still focused on threading them through the crowds, so he missed the way her step faltered when he said home—like it was a place they shared. Her stomach felt a bit strange—the alcohol? Or the adrenaline from the missed step? It couldn’t be because she was about to do something impulsive…
He settled them in a spot where no trees blocked the view, no one too tall stood in front of her, and the breeze seemed to have slowed. “How’s this?”
“It works.” She was too focused on controlling her breathing and talking herself out of that little reckless thought to give him a better response.
“I know, I know. We should have gone to the other bank, you can see more clearly there. But they closed the bridges off and I don’t think we can make it off the trains in time.” Killian was rambling, his hand reaching behind his ear to scratch at whatever nerves he was battling.
“It’s fine, Killian. Really.” Emma smiled gently, amused. Time stretched, taut and thin.
Ten… nine… eight…
Their voices rose and joined the crowd in the countdown. She would just wait until next year.
…seven…six…five…
No. Emma’s pulse thudded louder than the crowd. She didn’t want to wait. Not another year. Not another second...well, maybe a few seconds longer.
…four…three...two…
Oh. Her breath caught. She was going to do this, wasn’t she?
…one…
All at once, the crowd yelled “Happy New Year,” fireworks burst overhead, and Emma turned to Killian.
Before her courage could falter, she leaned in pressing a kiss to his cheek, quick and soft. Warm skin against cold air. The faint rasp of stubble grazed her lips, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. She pulled back, pulse hammering, proud and terrified all at once.
Emma turned toward the river as fireworks painted the sky in bursts of gold and crimson. She watched, trying to calm her racing heart. But the heat and pressure of the previous moment lingered on her lips.
She planted her boots more firmly on the street and focused on the pops and bursts before her - very intentionally refusing to look at the man beside her. At least, not until her thudding heart was less visible in her chest.
But when, moments later, several of the largest fireworks she had ever seen burst overhead, she turned out of instinct to see if Killian was equally impressed.
His gaze wasn’t on the sky above them.
Killian was focused on her, his eyes bright and unguarded, something new simmering beneath the blue. He looked like a man spellbound, lost in a different world. Emma’s throat went dry at the sudden realization that he hadn’t moved since the world started welcoming the New Year. Since she’d kissed—and maybe broken—him.
She cocked her head, about to ask if he was malfunctioning.
That must have lifted the spell. In a quick movement, his hand slid to her waist, firm and certain. The world stilled. His eyes searched hers for a beat, then lowered, slow and deliberate.
The first brush of his lips was gentle, almost questioning. Then the kiss deepened—hungry, devastatingly tender—like he’d been holding it back for far too long. Fireworks roared and faded into smoke, but Emma barely noticed. Her senses drowned in cedar and salt, in the heat of his mouth, in the way his fingers tightened like he was afraid to let go.
When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against hers, breath mingling with hers in the cold night air. For a moment, time felt infinite.
“Happy New Year, Swan,” he murmured, voice low and certain.
Emma smiled, lips tingling, heart steady for the first time in months. “How about that champagne nightcap?”
Killian’s answering grin was slow, sure—a promise in the curve of his mouth and the press of his hand at her waist. And for the first time in a long time, Emma believed the year ahead might not be so bleak.
Taken from a prompt in @creativepromptsforwriting Fall AUs
Prompt: My dog yanked on its leash and now I’m lying in a giant pile of leaves and you stand there and laugh and STOP TAKING PICTURES!
AU town in which there is no magic and Regina and Robin are neighbours
Robin Locksley doesn’t embarrass easily.
There was a time, sure—back when he still wore his brother’s hand-me-down trousers to school and hadn’t figured out how to flirt without losing all control of his body and knocking something over. Once, he’d managed to spill an entire tray of cafeteria meatloaf down the front of the girl he fancied. Another time, he tried to impress a rugby scout with a dramatic dive that ended with him concussed and face-first in a mud puddle.
He’d blushed. Hard. But those days were long gone.
These days, Robin knew who he was. Single father. Steady job. A man who could rebuild a fence, make a decent stew, and teach his kid how to tie a reef knot in under five seconds. He had no patience for pride or pretense. Certainly not enough to get flustered by a few stray leaves and a stubborn dog.
So no, Robin Locksley doesn’t embarrass easily.
Usually.
But now Henry Mills is laughing maniacally, bounding across the park like he’s just witnessed the greatest moment of his young life. And behind him—trailing slowly, smugly, looking like the embodiment of fall in her thigh-high boots, burgundy coat and coffee in hand—is his equally amused (and so very hot) mother.
Regina Mills.
Phone in hand. Camera pointed.
And Robin—who has just been unceremoniously yanked off his feet by a rogue retriever, faceplanted into the leaf pile he’d so painstakingly raked for the town fair cleanup—is flat on his back, leaves in his hair, and dignity nowhere in sight.
“Delete it,” he groans, shielding his eyes from the midday sun—and from her smirk.
Regina lowers the phone but doesn’t stop smiling. “Oh, I will. Eventually. After I’ve shown Mary Margaret. And Emma. And possibly your son.”
“Traitor,” he mutters. He would sit up if the dog weren’t now sitting on his chest.
“Next time,” she says sweetly, “try letting go of the leash.”
He shakes his head with a grin, their eyes lock for a long moment and it’s times like these when he wonders if she feels what he feels. That spark. That ignition of feeling that blooms across his chest.
They’ve been neighbours now for almost eighteen months.
They hadn’t started off on the best foot. He’d had his nephew, Will, to stay with him for the first few weeks.
He’d left England - much to Robin’s sister’s horror - to pursue music. His band of idiots no more reliable or responsible than Will himself. So she’d begged Robin to look out for him and to help him get on his feet.
But he’d been a bit of a handful at the start.
Sitting on the porch and drinking beers with newfound friends, music a constant feature. Climbing onto the roof from his bedroom window to smoke pot in view of any who dared look up.
Robin had curbed that type of behaviour as quickly as he was able to but not before his eagle-eyed neighbour had bore witness to it.
”I have a twelve year-old son, I will not allow him to live next door to a glorified frat house.”
That had been her opening volley—curt, precise, and spoken through the tightest expression he’d ever seen. She’d crossed her arms like she was preparing to formally evict him from the zip code.
At the time, Robin had thought she was overreacting. A bit uptight. Prissy, even.
She thought he was careless, inconsiderate. Possibly feral.
It wasn’t until much later—when Will had finally found a job that didn’t involve busking for weed money, and Henry had wandered over one Saturday morning to help Robin sand the new shed—that they’d begun to shift toward something else. Not quite friendship, but no longer enemies either. They shared tools now. Coffee, occasionally. Little nods of recognition when they passed each other in the mornings.
And over time, Regina had softened.
Not drastically, not all at once. But enough.
She’d knock on his door when Henry forgot his school project at Robin’s place. Robin would keep an eye out for her recycling bin on windy days. She’d even let Roland walk Pongo with Henry a few times—though not without a lecture about leash safety and a signed permission slip like it was a field trip to the Arctic.
So yes, things were better now.
Comfortable.
Which made it all the more disarming that every now and then, like now, she looked at him with that glint in her eye—that spark that made Robin forget, briefly, where he was. That she wasn’t his. That this little back-and-forth wasn’t something more than it was.
Her phone lowers again, and she offers a hand.
He takes it without hesitation, her fingers warm in his. She’s stronger than she looks, and it takes him a second longer than necessary to stand.
Leaves fall from his jacket. The dog finally hops off his chest, tail wagging like he hasn’t just publicly humiliated his owner.
Henry’s still laughing.
Regina’s still smirking.
And Robin—embarrassed or not—realises he wouldn’t change a single thing about this ridiculous afternoon.
Well. Maybe the photos.
Definitely the photos.
Robin brushes a few stubborn leaves from his collar, shooting a glare at the dog, who pants up at him like this was all a brilliant game.
“You’re no help at all,” he mutters.
Pongo wags harder.
Regina lets out a soft laugh—an actual, genuine one—and Robin nearly misses it. It’s rare, that sound. Less polished than the one she uses at town council meetings. More real.
They start walking, the three of them—well, four if you count the canine menace—toward the cluster of houses that line the far end of the park. Henry bounds ahead, expertly kicking through leaf piles like a kid on a mission, his laughter echoing between the trees.
Regina walks beside Robin, coffee in one hand, the leash in the other now that Pongo’s calmed down.
“He’s got your sense of humour,” Robin says, nodding toward Henry. “Wicked. Merciless.”
Regina sips her coffee. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
She glances at him then, sidelong, just briefly, but enough for him to see the flush of pink at her cheeks—not from the cold.
They fall into an easy silence for a few paces. Leaves crunch underfoot, the kind of sound that fills the quiet without needing to be filled.
“He likes you,” Regina says eventually, eyes on Henry.
Robin hums. “He’s a good kid.”
“He is.” She hesitates. “I wasn’t sure, at first. About you.”
He grins. “You made that quite clear.”
“Well, in my defense, you did have an English hooligan smoking pot on your roof.”
Robin snorts. “That’s fair.”
Another silence. Softer this time. Weighted differently.
Robin slips his hands into his coat pockets, resisting the urge to look at her again. He knows that if he does—if she catches him watching her the way he always seems to—it’ll shift something between them. Something that still feels too dangerous to name.
But she looks at him this time.
And says, almost quietly, “You’re good for this place.”
Robin blinks.
Not you’re good with the kids or you’re less annoying now—but you’re good for this place.
It lodges somewhere in his chest.
Before he can find the right reply—because there’s a lot he could say—Henry loops back around, breathless and red-cheeked, and grins up at them both.
“Can we get hot chocolate on the way home? The place with the cinnamon sprinkles?”
“Only if you stop weaponising my dignity in public,” Robin deadpans.
Henry flashes a cheeky grin. “No promises.”
Regina hides a smile behind her coffee cup. Robin catches it anyway.
They turn the corner toward their street, the three of them falling into step again.
And as they walk—Robin with leaves still stuck to his jumper, Regina with that smile still tugging at the corner of her mouth, Henry bouncing between them—it feels, for the briefest moment, like something close to hopeful.
… in which Regina surprises Robin and maybe even herself, Emma learns some courtly manners and more nautical customs, and Killian is enjoying himself more and more.
~8,500 words | read on ao3
Post-Neverland AU where Pan did not escape Pandora’s Box and Emma tries to come to grips with her strange new life featuring pirates, parents, and flying monkeys. Catch up here, or on ao3!
Note: yes it's been ages. Sorry! Life happened and I won't bore you with the details, the important thing is that the chapter's finished and the next one's under way! Also I changed the name of Ria's ship because frankly I can't believe I didn't think of it before and it fits better.
And if you're still here reading: thanks for sticking with it, and thanks for all the love along the way. This fic wouldn't exist without you. I hope you enjoy!
It’s stupid, Regina tells herself even as she holes up in her room and tries to summon the right kind of magic. Robin doesn’t even like her. He doesn’t need her help. He won’t want her help.
But she had an idea after finding Roland, a way to keep track of the boy, and…
It’s stupid. Zelena is still out there, and sooner or later, she’ll have to fight her. But she hasn’t been able to bring herself to go back to working on that. Not when that’s the reason why she’s here. Without Henry.
She hasn’t told the others that it’s her fault. She prioritised fighting Zelena over helping Hook, and here they are.
Villains never win.
She was so sure that she’s not a villain anymore, after Neverland. But of course it’s not that easy. At least not for her.
The only comforting part of it is that maybe, just maybe, it means that Zelena won’t win either.
It’s probably pointless to work on anything anyway, since she doesn’t have access to her vault, or any of her books, or anything else she needs. If she’s going to fail, she might as well fail at something that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
Or maybe she won’t fail, and Robin will simply throw it back in her face because he won’t trust a magical artefact made by the Evil Queen anywhere near his kid. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly what will happen.
Oh well. She’ll have tried. In any case, the idea is lodged firmly in her head now, and she can’t not try to see if it works.
And she does. After a few frustrating failures, where she manages to spot her mistakes right after she made them, she finally gets it right. She holds the slender silver arrow in her palm, taps it three times… and watches it turn to point towards the feather-shaped pendant lying on her writing desk.
Triumphant, she slips the pendant onto a silver chain and sweeps out of her room.
It occurs to her as she reaches the main doors of the castle that it’s a bit ridiculous to go running straight to Robin like a kid who’s eager to show off her school project. It’s not like she won’t see him sooner or later anyway.
But it’s too late now to turn back, because now she has stepped out into the main courtyard, and it would look stupid to turn around and head right back inside. Instead, she lifts her chin and makes her way towards the ruined east wing.
The Merry Men have set up camp in the ruins, tents and makeshift huts built beside and against the castle walls. It’s chaotic and it smells like forest and wood smoke, and she’s always avoided it until now.
She spots Robin at once, a tall figure in a dark green tunic, hanging clothes on a line strung between a half-broken high window and a hook in the far wall. Little Roland is nearby with a little girl who might be a year or two older than him. They’re playing a game that involves an old barrel and a lot of shrieking and laughter, and Regina can’t help smiling at them.
Roland notices her first, and calls her name. He crawls out of the barrel and asks, “Can we go see the rabbits?”
Robin turns to look at him, then follows his gaze to Regina.
“You’ll have to ask your father,” Regina tells the boy, and tries very, very hard not to notice that she just said the stereotypical co-parenting phrase. It doesn’t count. She isn’t Roland’s parent.
Roland shoots a glance at his father, and Robin must have managed to make an impression after the forest incident, because the boy doesn’t even bother asking. He just says “okay” in a dejected voice, and turns to crawl back into the barrel.
Regina can’t suppress her smile. He’s just too damn cute.
“Hello, your Majesty.” Robin is leaning against the wall, one arm braced on the high windowsill, all nonchalant irreverence. “How may I be of service?”
His tone makes it clear that he has no intention of being of service. Regina almost snaps back something sarcastic, but she manages to bite her tongue. She’s not here for a fight.
“I have something for you, actually.”
His eyebrows rise. “A job?”
“A gift.” She holds out her palm, where the necklace and arrow are nestled together.
Surprise, caution, and confusion war on Robin’s face. They all look good on him, which strikes her as rather unfair. “What’s this?”
“I’ve enchanted them,” she says. “The arrow will point towards this necklace, if... I thought it might be useful. For Roland, since he keeps wandering off.”
Robin is staring at her. His eyebrows are raised, but other than that, his expression is calm. Expectant.
Handsome.
Damn it.
“I know there’s a line between protective and overbearing,” she hurries to add, because he’s looking at her and she doesn’t know what he’s thinking and maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this is something Cora would have done. But on the other hand... “It’s just, with the Wicked Witch and her monkeys around, it really is dangerous, and I just thought...”
“No, of course,” Robin says. He frowns slightly at the pendant in her hand. “How does it work?”
“He wears this,” Regina says, holding out the necklace and trying not to notice the relief spreading through her. “And if he goes missing, you put this in your palm,” she holds up the arrow, “and tap it three times, and it’ll point towards the necklace.”
Robin shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“That’s because I just made it,” she says impatiently. “Look, do you want it or not?”
“You made—yes, of course,” he says hurriedly. “I didn’t mean—sorry.” He offers a rueful smile. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful.”
She waves that away as she hands the two items over. “Just, y’know. Make sure he wears it. The enchantment should last about two years, maybe three.”
Robin is still smiling as his hand closes around the arrow. “That’s perfect. Hopefully by then he’ll have learned to bloody tell me where he’s going.”
“Right.”
“Thank you,” Robin says again. “You have no idea—well, actually, you do, don’t you,” he corrects himself with a wry little laugh. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have thought of it. I really appreciate it.”
He means it. She almost wishes he didn’t. His sincerity makes her want to squirm.
The moment stretches between them, waiting for her to say something, but she can’t think of a single thing.
She clears her throat. “Right. Okay. Well. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll see you later.”
And she leaves before he can say anything or before she can say any more, feeling both relieved and foolish. What is it about him that has her scrambling for words like that? Unless they’re arguing about something, that is. And it’s not that she wants to argue, it’s just that he’s got that reckless streak, and he won’t back down, and he just has to be in charge even when his plans are idiotic…
But he didn’t throw the necklace in her face. It wasn’t a bad idea. He took it, and thanked her. That feels like a good step.
Towards what, she doesn’t know. It’s not like she’s trying to be friends. She knows better.
(Or maybe she doesn’t.)
* * *
The weather grows noticeably colder as the Scarlet Hawk makes her way northwest towards Misthaven. The days are warm, but the evenings have begun to carry a chill, and Killian knows they will likely run into snow before the journey is over.
“Good thing we got this,” Emma says the day she pulls on the coat she bought back in Azar.
Thinking of the tailor makes him think of Blackbeard, and the ship, and he feels his jaw clench as he pushes the thoughts away. He focuses instead on the way the dark leather coat fits over Emma’s tunic, and it’s easier than it probably should be to get distracted by the way she looks in it. With her blond hair in a windswept braid and the coat over her breeches and boots, she looks like she belongs on the ship.
In his world. Something about that still strikes him every time.
Not to mention that she’s bloody gorgeous as always. His hand is itching to reach for her hair, to tug at the braid and loosen it just to make her glare at him—to look at him—and maybe even retaliate. For the first time in his life, Killian truly understands why some boys pull girls’ pigtails. It’s bloody tempting.
Instead, he affects surprise and says, “I thought you were set against black leather.”
She knows he’s provoking her, of course, and she scrunches up her nose at him. It’s endearing as hell when she does that, not that he’ll ever say so. “It’s not black, it’s dark brown.”
She’s right, of course, but he just shrugs. “Looks black to me.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, a sly sort of grin creeping over her face. “You make it look good, I thought I’d try it out.”
His surprise is real this time, and his grin automatic. He knows that Emma finds him attractive, but she’s never said so before, not even in a roundabout way. “Well, you look ravishing.”
She flashes a sarcastic smirk, as if he was joking, and splays out her arms as she bends her knees.
He stares. “What was that?” The question is out before he can stop it.
“A curtsy?” She’s scrunching up her face again, as though she’s not at all sure that what she just did was, in fact, a curtsy.
And she’s right to, because it wasn’t.
“Bloody hell,” he says. “We ought to have worked on that before now.”
She winces again. “That bad?”
There’s really no way to say it diplomatically. “It’s just that… given who you are…” he begins.
“… I should know how to do that,” Emma finishes. “Yeah. We should’ve thought this through more.”
She has a point. He’s normally better at this sort of thing, but after all the unexpected twists they’ve had to adapt to, it’s perhaps more amazing they still have a cover story at all. “Not to worry,” he says. “It’s not hard.”
And as a very amused Henry watches, he teaches Emma how to curtsy.
Of all the things he might have expected to find himself doing, this certainly was not one. If anyone told him as little as a year ago that he’d be teaching the princess of Misthaven how to curtsy, he’d have thought it a joke or the ramblings of a lunatic. But he doesn’t mind, not with the way she laughs at herself, the way she curses under her breath and sets her jaw in determination to get it right.
It might not be entirely honourable to enjoy it so much. But when she stumbles sideways, he has to catch her, and he doesn’t care one bit that he’s demonstrating curtsies of all things when it leads to this. Her scent wraps around him, seawater and sweat and the jasmine and lemongrass soap she bought in Azar, and he’s leaning into her before he can stop himself.
It might be a little pathetic, how focused he is on her. But they mean something now, these moments. He’s seen the way her eyes linger, the way her smile brightens for him. Even the way she grabs him for support now, without hesitation, is a far cry from how things were a few weeks ago.
He’s not imagining it. He knows he’s not, because he’s been trying very hard not to imagine it.
“No, we’ll have none of that now, love,” he says, mock-admonishing, as he pushes her back on balance. “Sweeping you off your feet comes later.”
She rolls her eyes at him, laughing, and swats him on the arm. “You need practice with that, huh?”
He grins. “Couldn’t hurt. Especially if you’re willing to help me practice.”
“Stop that.” She shakes her head and looks down at her feet. “Let’s try that again. My left foot goes… here?”
She gets the hang of it very quickly after that, to her apparent surprise.
“You’re a princess, Mom,” Henry says, exasperated. “Makes sense that you’d be good at it.”
She glares at her son. “Shh!”
Killian is well aware that she isn’t just concerned with keeping their story straight. Emma has never been particularly enthusiastic about her royal status, to the point where Killian often forgets about it himself.
“Whatever the reason, milady,” he says, smiling when her eyes flash at the title, “it appears you’re a natural.”
She responds with the most sarcastic curtsy he’s ever seen, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. She moves with natural grace, her posture straight, and it makes for a hell of a combination with her practical clothing and windswept hair and irreverence. Want sweeps through him, sudden and fierce and far too familiar.
Henry’s laughter breaks the spell, and he joins in, shaking off the moment.This is not the time for those feelings, and Killian has been realising that if a man can’t control his own feelings, he can control nothing at all.
* * *
He estimates that they’re a few days out from Glowerhaven when they make a stop in a small cove. The Hawk drops anchor, and Ria and a few of the crew make ready to row to shore, where a small village nestles beyond the beach.
Ria assures them it’s only a quick stop for supplies, but Killian notes that he, Emma, and Henry are carefully manoeuvred out of the way as the crew make their preparations.
He makes sure not to watch them too closely, nor to ask any questions. Ria might trust him more now, but if he pokes his nose into her smuggling, his newfound favour is likely to disappear. He’s not sure why they’re bothering to hide it; he already knows that Ria is a smuggler. Perhaps she’s paranoid about Emma finding out, given her alleged status as a lady of the royal court.
“So,” Emma says casually as they sit on deck in the sunshine, waiting for the others to return. “Do you know what we’re smuggling?”
He bites back the instinctive denial; he isn’t responsible for any of the law-breaking this time. Besides, she knows. Princess or not, Emma has a significant amount of criminal experience herself. “No,” he says. “And we aren’t. They are.”
“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” Emma asks. “I mean, a big ship anchoring in this tiny bay?”
“Who’d see it?” Killian points out. “The locals likely all benefit from it one way or another, and it’s a long way to the earl’s castle.”
“I guess.” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I keep forgetting that everything works different around here. What usually gets smuggled? Drugs?”
“It depends,” Killian says. “Arendelle has strict laws about magical artefacts, so those fetch a lot there. Corona and Misthaven used to have very high taxes on fabrics, especially silk, but I’m almost sure that changed years ago. And picking it up out here… it could be anything.”
Emma is silent for a moment, thinking. “Do you think they’re smuggling for the rebellion?”
He smirks as Emma’s words bring the answer to him. “Actually, that would explain her attempts at secrecy. She wouldn’t want me to know that she’s taking sides. Scoundrels like us don’t do that, after all.”
Emma smiles at that. “Yeah, well. Sometimes people change their minds about stuff like that, don’t they?”
He feels his face warm, and fights it back with a burst of irritation. He’s not going to blush. “So I’m told. Still, it usually takes some…” He lets his gaze linger on her, deliberately, because if there’s going to be blushing, it’ll at least go both ways, damn it. He’s rewarded with a little eye roll and a smile she tries hard to fight back as he finishes, “… incentive.”
She loses the fight with her smile and laughs, shaking her head. “You are so…”
“Charming?” he suggests.
She shakes her head again, pressing her tongue against her top teeth as she considers him, her eyes sparkling. “Full of it.”
She’s right, but he’s not about to admit that. “I’m merely pointing out that people usually have a reason to… get involved.”
“Yeah.” She pokes him gently in the chest, just above his heart. “It’s called a conscience.”
His heart, as if on cue, has begun to pound rather harder than usual. “Best be careful,” he tells her, trying to ignore the drum in his ears. “You’re giving me an awful lot of credit. I might start thinking you actually like me.”
She just laughs again—and it’s not an amused scoff at the notion of her liking him. No, she gives him a wry look and laughs as if her not liking him is the joke.
And he knows he’s inclined towards wishful thinking where Emma is concerned, so he really needs her to scoff or tell him he’s full of it again, to restore the balance here and remind him where they stand.
But she doesn’t. She just laughs, and the laugh fades to a smile, and then she says something about smugglers and rebellions and Star Wars that he hasn’t a hope of understanding, mostly because his thoughts are still tangled in it’s called a conscience and that bloody laugh.
He needs to make another glib remark, or pay her a compliment, or preferably combine both of those to try and make her blush again—but he can’t, for the life of him, think of anything to say.
So much, he thinks ruefully, for control.
* * *
Ria is gone for a few hours, and by the time she returns, night is falling.
“We’ll anchor here tonight,” she says. “There’s an issue with one of the—supplies, so we may as well wait.”
Killian is careful to keep his expression neutral; Emma’s only reaction is to glance at him, a knowing look that Ria misses.
“Excellent,” Wes proclaims with a grin. “Cap’n, permission to go ashore—”
“Everyone stays on board,” Ria cuts him off, and her knowing look is clear for all to see.
“I only meant, to get some decent food,” Wes tries.
Inga rolls her eyes. “We just got supplies. That includes food. Idiot.”
Killian resists the urge to shake his head. Expert smugglers they may be, but their acting abilities leave a lot to be desired. And whatever talents in that area Wes Carswell might have, he suspects that the man uses them mostly for acting the gentleman and telling the ladies what they like to hear.
Even so, Killian is just as glad to go along with the ruse. If they’re busy hiding their true activities from him, they’ll be less inclined to suspect that he and Emma are hiding something from them.
At least they aren’t lying about the food: there are fresh vegetables and meat from the village, and an argument over who will do the cooking ensues. Eventually, Lynch insists that even with one arm, he’s still a better cook than the rest of them, and Emma volunteers to act as his hands again.
The food is delicious, especially after so many days of hard tack and fish.
“Excellent food, prepared by a beautiful woman,” Wes says around a mouthful. “Nothing better.”
Killian can’t help rolling his eyes at that. Thankfully, he’s not the only one; several of the crew do likewise, evidently both used to and fed up with Wes’s flirting.
Emma only exchanges an amused glance with Lynch. “I think he means you. He call you a woman often?”
Lynch nods seriously. “Yeah, he gets things confused a lot. Explains why he keeps flirting with me.”
Wes makes a rude hand gesture at him. “You wish. You can’t hold a candle to the lady.” He winks at Emma.
Emma just shakes her head, still looking amused. There’s a general chorus of exasperation among the crew—from all except Jim, who is watching Wes and his flirting as if taking notes.
Killian fights back the comment he’s dying to make. He’s here because he owes Emma’s husband a debt, and his feelings go no further than that. It won’t do for anyone to begin questioning that, or anything else about their story. If he makes a comment, he knows damn well he’ll only sound jealous.
As it turns out, he doesn’t need to. Because Lynch narrows his eyes at Wes, and makes it for him.
“I’ll hold a candle to you if you don’t shut up.”
Killian smirks and takes another bite of his pork chop.
“Do not set people on fire on my ship,” Ria cuts in, sounding tired. Before Wes can thank her for defending him, she adds, “Wait until he’s off of it.”
Wes sends her a betrayed look while the others laugh.
“The wind should pick up again tomorrow morning,” Ria says, turning to Emma. “So it won’t be a big delay. We’ll get to Misthaven on schedule.”
Emma nods. “That’s fine. It’s not like we’re on a timetable here.”
“Right.” Ria is casual as she says it, but there’s a fraction of a moment where her eyes are a bit too sharp. As if something in what Emma just said has raised some suspicion.
Killian tries to think what that might be, but the conversation is already moving on and it’s hard to keep track as it is.
“Is your dad gonna be there?” Jim asks, turning to Henry. “To meet you?”
Henry turns to Emma in mute appeal, and Emma answers for him. “I don’t know if he’ll be there,” she says. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t exactly know we’re coming.”
She smiles at Jim as she says it. Jim blushes scarlet, and manages a weak, “Oh, right.”
Killian tries to hide his amusement. He’s noticed the way Jim tends to avoid Emma—or rather, the way he prefers to look from a distance. The lad is all of fifteen; old enough to notice, too young to know what to do about it, and far too young for Emma. And now here he is, the sole focus of a smile from the woman who has probably inspired more than one daydream lately.
Poor lad.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Jimmy,” Wes says, the devil glinting in his eyes. “Her husband’s a Navy man, you want to watch out.”
Jim shoots him a glare, still scarlet. “I’m not! That’s not—I was just asking.” He turns to Henry again, clearly determined to push past the embarrassing moment. “You didn’t tell me your dad was in the Navy! Did he go after smugglers?”
Henry looks around briefly, shakes his head. “No.”
“Is that where you learned to sail?” Jim asks. “You said—”
“I don’t want to talk about my dad!” Henry jumps to his feet. Without another word, he makes his way across the deck to the hatch that leads below.
There’s a moment of silence—Jim looking confused, Wes concerned, everyone else somewhere in between.
Emma presses her lips together as she watches Henry go. Killian wants to say something, some explanation, but it’s not his place.
And Emma’s got it covered. “It’s been difficult,” she offers. “Complicated. His dad wasn’t always around as much as… he wanted to be.”
She’s good. It’s not the first time Killian has noticed her skill at staying close enough to the truth to sell the story, without giving the actual truth away.
“It’s tough on a kid,” Stavros says with an understanding nod. “Even if his father’s got a good reason for being gone, it’s tough.”
“Yeah.” Emma gets to her feet with an apologetic smile. “I better go talk to him.”
* * *
Emma finds Henry in the cabin, sitting almost in the exact spot where she comforted Killian just a few days ago. Emma sinks down next to him, feeling strangely reassured by the memory. “Hey. You okay?”
Henry looks up at her. “I didn’t know what to say. Did I blow our cover?”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” Emma shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t think we’d have to pretend for this long.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” Henry admits. “I really don’t want to talk about him. It just slipped out.”
“It’s okay,” Emma assures him. “I explained that your dad wasn’t around much and that you’re kind of mad at him right now. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Henry heaves a deep breath, a very adult gesture. “This spy stuff is harder than I thought. It was a lot easier back in Storybrooke.”
“We didn’t have a whole fake backstory in Storybrooke,” Emma points out. “I’ve done this before, and it’s hard for me as well. You’re doing great.”
“It’s…” He trails off, thinking. “Mostly it’s easy. I can say some things. I can tell Jim about Grandma and Gramps. But sometimes… sometimes…”
Emma puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes you want to tell him about…?”
“Mom.” Henry almost whispers the word.
“Oh.” Yeah, that’s an awkward one. Regina doesn’t really slot neatly into anything resembling a normal family dynamic.
“I miss her,” Henry says. And then he glances up at her, almost worried. “I know you’re here, and you’re my mom too, but—”
“Hey, I get it.” Emma puts an arm around him and pulls him close. “Of course you miss her. I miss M—my mom, too. And I know Regina misses you.”
“I miss everyone,” Henry admits, his voice muffled now. “I wish we could send a message. Like you guys did with the mirror, in Neverland.”
Emma thinks of her magic, still trapped in the ring she wears hidden under her shirt, and fights back a pang of regret. Then again, even if she still had it, she has no idea how to send messages with it. She’s thought about it, even talked to Killian about it, because she hates knowing that her parents think they’ll never see her again. She knows how they feel, because she knows how she’d feel.
But the fact is that any message they could send wouldn’t get there before they do, and it’s far too risky. “Yeah,” is all she can say. “Me too.”
“When are we gonna get back there?”
“I’m not sure,” Emma says. “You’d have to ask Killian.”
Henry hesitates. “I don’t want to keep asking him.”
“Why not?” she asks carefully.
“He always feels bad when I ask. I can tell. I think it annoys him.”
Her empathetic little boy. Emma gives his shoulders a squeeze. “He just feels bad because he can’t make the ship go any faster.”
Henry frowns. “That’s dumb. It’s a sailing ship, you can’t make it go faster.”
Emma smiles and makes a mental note to mention this to Killian. “Yeah, sometimes he’s a little dumb.”
Henry laughs.
“You’re not annoying him ,” she goes on, more seriously. “It’s just that he wants us to get home as fast as possible. He wants to be able to tell you we’ll be there tomorrow, but he can’t, so then he feels bad. It’s not because of you asking. It’s okay to ask him. Or any of the others.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent for another moment. “Do I have to come back to dinner, or can I stay here for a bit?”
“Whatever you want.” She lets go of him. She wants to stay, to cheer him up, but she has a feeling that’s not what he needs right now. “Want me to leave you alone?”
He nods, but he looks a lot happier already, and she silently awards herself a mom point for getting this one right. “Okay.”
* * *
By the time Emma gets back on deck, everyone has finished with dinner and dispersed. Killian is fiddling with one of the fishing nets, and catches her eye when she emerges from the hatch. “All right—” he almost calls her “Swan”, catches himself just in time—“milady?”
She mirrors his smile. “Yeah.”
“How’s the lad?”
“He’s okay, just needs a little me time.” She sits down next to him, arms draped over her drawn-up knees. “Oh, and he wants to know when we’ll reach Misthaven, but he doesn’t want to ask you.”
“A little over a week, if the wind holds.” Killian eyes her, unsure of whether to ask, but unable not to. “Is there a reason why he doesn’t want to ask me himself?”
She shakes her head. “He says it makes you feel bad when he asks.”
Killian huffs out a surprised laugh. He didn’t see that one coming, although perhaps he should have. “He’s a good lad,” he says softly. “I do wish I could get us there faster.”
“That’s what I told him.”
That’s another surprise, that Emma would speak up for him that way. And again, it shouldn’t be, because of course she would explain things to her son. She always does. He just isn’t used to people being so thoughtful. “But he needn’t be considerate of me. I’ll tell him—”
“No,” Emma cuts him off firmly. “Look, you’re not gonna get him to stop caring. And I wouldn’t want him to.”
She sounds fierce, pride in her voice. Pride in her son for being so considerate. And there’s another note there, too, the same one he heard when she told him that it has to go both ways between them.
Like she wants Henry to care about him—not just for the boy’s sake, but for his, too. Another startling thought.
Trying to cover his surprise, he inclines his head. “Fair point. I just don’t want him to be afraid to talk to me—for any reason.”
“You might have to work on hiding your reaction a bit better,” she says, in a conspiratorial tone that tells him she’s speaking from experience. “He’s too damn perceptive sometimes.”
He grins then. “I wonder where he gets that from.”
And she smiles, like it pleases her to hear that her son takes after her. Killian has never wondered before whether she ever questions that. Henry reminds him of Emma all the time—his quick wit, his bright smiles, the way his eyes twinkle when he’s being mischievous, that indefatigable sense of optimism and determination—but he’s suddenly not so sure that Emma sees it.
“Yeah,” Emma said, that note of pride still in her voice, “that’s definitely not from his dad. I mean…” She thinks about it. “Neal can be perceptive. Kind of. I don’t know, it’s weird.”
Killian nods. He doesn’t want to speak ill of Neal, has been very careful not to, but he knows that Emma still questions her own instincts at times. She needs to hear that she’s right. “I think he’s… inclined to see what he wants to see,” he says. “Or not, as the case may be. Not always, of course, but when he’s… shall we say, emotionally invested.”
Emma stares at him like he’s just said something absolutely brilliant. “Yes! That’s what he does, right? He sees what he wants. And when he doesn’t want to see something, it’s like he just ignores it. He does it with you, too, right? He doesn’t want you to be—well, anything but a villain, so he won’t see it.”
“Well, that’s—complicated,” Killian says carefully. “He has his reasons for seeing me like that.”
“He’s got reasons for seeing you as not like that, too,” she points out. “Y’know, helping to save his kid, saving him…” She thinks about it. “Twice. God, it makes so much sense, why—you know, I always had this feeling, but what you said—”
She seems to be having some kind of epiphany. Killian puts the fishing net down and cocks his head to the side. “I take it this has been… an issue of contention?”
She scoffs. “He said that’s what I was doing. Getting things wrong because I was emotional. Everyone kept saying it. Oh, you’re emotional, Emma, you’re not seeing things clearly, you’re just jealous. Except I was right, about Tamara, and about magic, and about—it had nothing to do with jealousy, he’s the one who—ugh.” She finishes with an annoyed sound in the back of her throat.
This has been bothering her, that much is clear from the anger flashing in her eyes. And if it goes back to Tamara, it predates Killian’s… involvement. He was working with Tamara back then, against Emma and Neal.
Killian suspected, after Neverland, that Emma wouldn’t simply let Neal back in. He could only guess at her reasons back then, had little more than his gut feeling to go on, but the more he learns, the more he realises that he was more right than he knew. He knows some of the reasons now, and they’re far more serious than he guessed. They go far beyond a simple lovers’ tiff, or misunderstanding, or bruised pride at having been left.
And they have nothing to do with him.
He realises just how much guilt was still weighing on him when it lifts in the wake of that revelation.
The weird thing is, for a moment as Emma looks at him and he at her, he would swear that she feels exactly the same.
* * *
Emma feels almost dizzy, vindication sweeping through her, along with a tingle of anger. Killian’s words have finally made something clear to her that has been clawing away at the back of her mind.
She’s not less perceptive or less capable just because she’s got feelings. Neal is the one who’s been seeing things the way he wants, who refused to listen to her about magic, who trusted Zelena because she validated him.
The nerve of the guy.
But she’s not as angry as she might have been just a few weeks ago. Instead, it’s almost a relief.
“You aren’t like that.” Killian says it as if he’s stating a simple fact, almost dismissively. “You’ve never struck me as someone to get blinded by her feelings. And as someone who’s very much inclined that way,” he offers a rueful smile, “I think I’m quite well-placed to judge.”
She shakes her head. “You’re a hothead, but it doesn’t blind you,” she says. “You see everything. You just ignore it if it’s in the way.”
He looks surprised, then narrows his eyes at her. “See? Perceptive.”
She laughs, feeling more of her annoyance fade. She doesn’t much want to talk about Neal, or about feelings, but she needs this right now.
The conversation with Henry dragged up some things that she knows she’s been pushing away. She’s been trying not to think about Neal and everything that happened and what it might mean. But hearing Henry say that he doesn’t want to talk about him…
It left her feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt, wishing things were different but kind of glad that they’re not. Does that make her a bad mother? She has no way of judging that. If Snow were here, she might ask. But she doesn’t have her mother here right now.
She’s got Killian, though. Who has been telling her about his brother, and about his Navy days, and asking about Henry. And for all his irreverence and flaws, she knows that he doesn’t judge. She takes a breath. “Can I ask you something?”
One eyebrow pops up. “By all means.”
“It’s more an opinion thing, really...”
“Out with it, Swan.”
“Am I terrible for feeling... kind of relieved?” she says. “I mean, I wish none of it had happened, and I know Henry’s upset about it, about what Neal did, but then I can’t help thinking that maybe now—” She pauses, but she’s started now, so she forges on. “You know, after I told my parents about what Neal did, they got off my back about him, and...”
She doesn’t know how to go on. Every way she can think of to phrase this really does sound terrible.
But Killian has caught her drift. “And now you can’t help hoping this will do the same for the lad? That he’ll no longer want you and Neal to be together?”
It sounds worse when he says it. She grimaces. “That is kind of terrible, right?”
“Let’s call it understandable,” he says with a shrug. “Given the way you worry about what everyone else wants, it’s not surprising that you’d be relieved when they stop asking things of you that you don’t want to do.”
“Hey, I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”
“No, you don’t,” he agrees, and then he smirks. “But you do feel guilty about not doing them.”
“Only sometimes,” she says, hearing the defensive note in her own voice. “I just feel—well, I felt like I... maybe I owed it to Henry, you know? To try. He’s a kid, of course he wants his parents to be together.”
Killian gives a dramatic wince, his smirk still lingering. “I’m afraid I may be a little biased here, love.”
The reminder sends a little thrill through her belly. She does her best not to let on.
“But,” Killian goes on, “I don’t think you’re letting him down. In fact, I suspect that Neal’s recent actions might have hit him harder had you two been a couple.”
“Fair point. Although...” She hesitates. “Maybe Neal wouldn’t have done any of it if we were together.”
She knows it’s a stupid thought the moment she says it. It’s not like it’s the first time he did something that hurt her in the name of “helping”. It’s not like their being together made any difference the first time around.
“All things considered, I doubt it.” Killian says. “But we could debate the ifs and maybes of it all day. In any case, if you’re relieved at the idea of not having to be with him… well, biased I may be, but that doesn’t sound as though you want to be with him.”
He’s got a point there. “Yeah. No.”
“In which case, you wouldn’t be doing the boy any favours no matter what,” Killian says.
“I guess.” Emma has seen plenty of cases where the kids would have been better off if their parents had called it quits. “It’s just... y’know. He wanted his parents to be together. That’s the fairytale, I guess.”
“Aye.” A shadow has settled over Killian’s features, and Emma suddenly knows that he’s not just thinking of her and Neal anymore. He’s thinking about Neal’s parents. “But I don’t think he’d be better off if you were miserable. I think… I think the important thing is that you’re there for him. Both of you.”
Emma nods, wanting to say something, unable to think of anything.
“All of you, I should say.” Killian clears his throat, and the shadow passes. “May I offer a counter-thought?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Henry already had two parents who were not a couple, before Neal came back into your lives,” Killian says, and now there’s a little gleam in his eyes that has her wondering where he’s going with this. “I don’t recall anyone making a case for you and Regina to be together.”
Emma has a mental image of herself living in Regina’s spotless house with her condescension and her haughtiness and her fire balls, and makes a face. “Now there’s a thought.”
Killian grins. “Indeed. My point being, the boy has three parents now, and grandparents who are the same age as his mother. It may not be a conventional situation, but the important thing is that you’re all there for him. That’s what he needs.”
“Fair point.” Emma has thought about that before. Her family is never going to be normal, and much as she’s wished for some normalcy at times... it doesn’t matter. She just wants them back.
“And really,” Killian says, “when you think about it, there’s just as much of a case to be made for Neal and Regina giving it a go.”
Emma laughs. “Please suggest that to Regina sometime.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You want me to get set on fire, do you?”
It’s her turn to grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll stand by with a bucket of water. And maybe some popcorn.”
“So kind of you,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I’m so glad you’ve got my back.”
“Anytime,” she assures him, still grinning.
And if she means it… well, she doesn’t have to say that.
* * *
As the sky and the sea begin to turn golden red, Stavros shows up on deck carrying a fiddle. He’s joined by a man Emma knows only as Hogan, who takes out a flute. Janssen and Inga join them, their chatter and laughter mixing with the first few strains of the fiddle.
Emma thinks that it might be time for Henry to come out of their cabin.
By the time she follows him back up on deck, most of the crew is gathered there, and Stavros and Hogan have begun to play a lively tune. Janssen’s wife, Inga, is keeping the rhythm by slapping her palms against the deck, swaying from side to side. As the Serena Hawk drifts lazily in the dark water, Aileen sings a short song in a language Emma doesn’t recognise.
Killian is leaning back against the railing a little apart from the crew, shooting a smile at Emma when she catches his eye and inclining his head to invite her and Henry to join him at the railing.
“What’s going on?” Henry asks as they reach him.
“The evening’s entertainment.” He tips his head to indicate Stavros and the others. “The next best thing to going ashore for the night.”
Aileen’s song ends, and Stavros and Hogan strike up a new tune. Janssen grabs Inga and sweeps her into a dance as the others cheer, twirling her around the deck.
“Emma.”
Wes is striding towards her, a wide smile on his handsome face. He holds out a hand. “Do me the honour, milady?”
Startled, she glances at Killian, then at the dancing couple. “I, uh—I don’t know—”
“You’ll be used to court dances, I s’pose,” Wes says. “Not to worry, this isn’t hard. I’ll show you.”
She looks at Killian again. He says nothing, just returns the look with amusement twinkling in his eyes and his eyebrow slightly raised as if to say, this is your problem.
“All right,” she says, because she can hardly back out when Killian is giving her that look. “But if I step on your feet or something, remember I warned you.”
Wes just laughs as he takes her hand and leads her out on the deck.
It’s not as bad as she expected. In fact, after the initial few missteps and stumbles, it’s fun. The steps, it turns out, don’t matter exactly; it’s more a matter of staying in the rhythm and being willing to jump around in time to the music. Wes whoops as he twirls her—the one move she’s actually familiar with—and Emma laughs, the last of her embarrassment sweeping away.
She laughs again as Aileen launches into a song warning a young woman against getting involved with a sailor. Killian plays along with it, giving her admonishing looks as she dances with Wes. She stumbles twice from laughing too much.
“Uh oh,” Wes says, grinning as he glances over at Killian and back to her. “Think I better watch my back?”
“More like your hands,” Emma tells him drily, and he laughs.
“I wouldn’t have pegged him as the protective sort.”
This time, it’s Emma’s heart that trips, not her feet. Killian’s supposed to be here to repay a debt. Nothing personal. “You think that’s protective, you should see my dad.”
Wes laughs again. “I’m pretty sure your father has a slightly different motivation.”
There’s nothing in it to suggest that he might suspect that she’s not who she claims, but he’s clearly not buying that Killian’s only interest in her is to repay a debt. Damn it. She’s going to have to warn him about that.
She can see his smirk if she brings that up. And he’ll probably say something ridiculous like I can’t help it, love. And she... doesn’t hate the thought.
“He’s just trying to keep me safe,” is what she says.
Wes’s grin turns wolfish. “I’m no danger to you.”
She gives him a look. She knows that grin, and she knows the look in his eyes, too. “Uh-huh.”
He winks at her as he takes her hands, pulling her deliberately closer than before.
“Navy husband!” Lynch calls out from the sidelines. Somewhere between working on the lines together during their escape, and cooking the meal together earlier, he’s taken her under his wing a bit. She suspects that having an excuse to rib Wes is part of the reason.
“Far away!” Wes shoots back, still with that unashamed grin on his face.
“You’re a menace,” she tells him, and he laughs like it’s a compliment.
When she insists on a break a few minutes later to catch her breath, she finds Killian teaching Henry the high kick she’s seen the others do. Henry is all for it, eyes bright as he leaps into the air, and Emma gasps as he goes for it, one of his feet kicking up almost as high as his head.
“Whoah, kid!”
Killian is beaming at him. “See? I told you you could do it.” He turns to Emma. “He’s a natural.”
“I didn’t know this was dancing!” Henry exclaims, grinning. “This is fun.”
And, faced with that, Emma can’t say anything except, “Awesome.”
“I’m gonna join Jim, okay?”
She nods, and Henry rushes off across the deck as Stavros and Aileen strike up another tune.
Beside Emma, Killian clears his throat. “I apologise if I overstepped. But he asked, and I didn’t see any harm in—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Emma cuts him off. “Just caught me off guard. Didn’t think he could kick that high.”
They watch together as Henry demonstrates his newfound prowess. It’s less a dance and more just leaping around, a way to burn off energy in the cramped confines of the ship.
“I’m glad he’s having fun,” Emma says. “I, uh—it’s nice of you. To, y’know. Show him the ropes.”
“I’m happy to do it.” He means it, and it makes something flutter in her chest.
To distract herself from that, she says, “So, you gonna show me how it’s done?”
It might sound slightly flirty. But that’s better than dwelling on the fact that Killian enjoys spending time with her kid and teaching him useful things about ships and dumb things about high kicks and everything in between.
He raises his eyebrows. “If you want, aye.”
It ends, of course, with him leading her out to join the others in the dance. There’s a moment where she’s already hunting for an excuse to stay put—but she lets it go. Everyone else is out here enjoying the evening. Just once, she wants to do the same. Surely, after the past few weeks, she’s earned it. They’ve earned it.
So she holds his hand and his hook and spins around until she forgets everything else. There’s just the music, and Killian, and then Henry’s hand in hers as Killian talks him through twirling her, and her cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much.
Afterwards, she sits on the deck while Killian teaches Henry a song that Regina will definitely murder him for, and she should probably put a stop to it, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Henry has far too much fun belting out the chorus with the rest of the crew, and Killian’s face lights up in a way she rarely gets to see, and instead of stopping them, Emma joins in. She isn’t part of the crew, but right now, like this, she feels like she belongs, and she forgets who she should be and who she’s supposed to be and is just… happy.
For tonight, at least, nothing else matters.
* * *
Robin stares down at the wand, then back up at the couple before him. It’s not the first time he has handled a magic wand; the last time is etched in his memory, not likely to fade any time soon.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
Will Scarlet rolls his eyes. “Answer ain’t gonna change if you keep asking, mate. She ain’t there. It’s lucky we found her wand, at least.”
Robin presses his lips together. Glinda was his biggest hope for fighting the Wicked Witch. Granted, since he sent Will off to Oz, Snow and her group have joined them and they now have several magic users on their side, but even so… “Any idea where she might be?”
“Not rightly sure,” Will says. “Ana reckons it’s a place between places. A sort of niche between realms.”
“Between realms?” Robin repeats, turning to the woman at Will’s side. “Is that even possible?”
“It’s not isn’t easy, but it’s possible,” Anastasia says. “I’ve never done it, but I know how. In theory.”
There’s no bitterness in her voice when she talks about the magic she can no longer use. Robin will admit to having had his doubts about her, but much like Will, she has proven herself.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense to me,” she goes on. “And it’s exactly the kind of thing Zelena would do.”
“But we don’t need her now, do we?” Will says. “Got a few people around now who can use magic.”
“What, the Evil Queen?” Anastasia scoffs. “Not a lot of talent there, from what I’ve heard. And the Blue Fairy is too busy being sanctimonious to get anything done.”
Robin sighs. She might be reformed, but she’s as sharp-tongued as ever. Will is hiding a smirk, shaking his head in a fond sort of way.
“Glinda might be useful, then, aye,” he says.
“And in any case,” Robin says mildly, “if she’s stuck between realms, she might appreciate a rescue.”
“Oh,” Will says. “Yeah. Right.”
“And we probably could use her help.” He might not agree with Anastasia’s assessment entirely, but he does believe in taking all the help he can get. And as he’s thinking it over, something else occurs to him. “Do you think she knows how to travel to another realm?”
Anastasia frowns in thought. “I’m not sure. Possibly. She was the most powerful witch in all of Oz, and they do magic differently there.”
Hope stirs in his chest. “So how do we find her?”
“Well,” Anastasia says, exchanging a glance with Will. “That’s where it gets a little complicated.”
does anyone know the title of that 3b fic told from Henry's POV, where he has fake memories of having another mother who died in a fire? he's drawn to Regina and notices things and he's just spiralling about everything, the poor kid?
I read it at once or twice in the last couple of years on ao3
EDIT: I FOUND IT!
I was looking through tags to add to this post and came across my reblog of it from 2023/07/13 😅
It was your voice is the splinter inside me by @nostradamus0
Jess can I please please PLEASE get a fluffy feelsy fic about Robin using Regina's bow? (Maybe they find it somewhere or she found it a while back and is keeping it in her vault and then gives it to him or something I DON'T KNOW BUT I WAIT IT PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU) I promise lots of virtual hugs and fluffy Christmas drabbles in return =D
I mean, this has been in my inbox for literal years, and there are so many more prompts waiting in there. Doing a little house cleaning today and actually going through some of them. Sorry for the abhorrently long wait.
:.:
The bow had been waiting for her in the back of the vault, half-forgotten beneath years of dust. When Regina lifted it free, she was surprised by its weight, heavier than memory allowed, but still familiar in the way an old song lingers on the tongue. The polished wood carried small scars, the kind only time and use could carve. She brushed her thumb along the curve and felt echoes of another life, a younger version of herself, before magic had become her shield and blade, when she still believed skill and will were enough to shape the world.
And not only that life. Another, too, fractured, half-remembered. When fate had bent differently and she hadn't been a queen at all, but a bandit in the forest. She remembered the bow she carried then: dark wood, worn smooth where her hand had gripped it, a loyal companion in a life of hunger and freedom. She remembered the snap of the string, the flight of arrows loosed beneath a canopy of leaves. She had been lighter then, somehow, even with all the conflict she carried, even with the sharp ache of nostalgia for things she'd never truly known. A son she hadn't raised, a life without Henry’s laughter, the absence of Robin’s steady presence and Roland’s small hand curled into her own.
It'd been a different kind of loneliness, threaded with longing for a family that had never existed, but softened by the illusion of freedom beneath the trees.
Now, with this bow resting against her palms, she felt all those selves press close, the girl who once believed she could fight her way through the world, and the woman who'd stolen in the night with nothing but her bow and her wit.
She found Robin at the edge of the woods, the air full of green quiet. He was bent over his arrows, knife flashing silver as he worked with the patient rhythm of someone who'd always known how to wait. For a long moment she only watched him, the steadiness of his hands, the way the afternoon light seemed to favor him. Then she stepped forward, holding out the bow.
“This was mine,” she said, and her voice surprised her, softer than she meant, almost careful.
Robin looked up, brow furrowing gently. He took it with both hands, reverent, as though it weren't a weapon but an heirloom. His fingers brushed hers, brief and unguarded, and the contact was enough to loosen something inside her chest.
He turned the bow over in his hands, thumb tracing the faint dents in the grip. “It suits you,” he said softly, almost to himself.
Regina’s gaze lingered on him, then on the curve of the wood. “It did once.” A pause. “Now it suits you.”
He tested the string, drawing it back with the ease of long practice, and for an instant she thought she glimpsed herself as she'd once been — lean, swift, unafraid beneath the trees. The arrow flew straight, striking the distant mark with a hollow sound. When he lowered the bow again, his gaze lingered on her instead.
“There’s more than wood and string in this,” he said softly. “There’s memory. There’s you. And I’ll honor that.”
Her lips threatened a smile, one she quickly masked, though the warmth in her chest refused to dim.
