Emma Swan hates apartment hunting. Hates it.
She hates having to weed through dozens and dozens of listings. She hates the generic and vague descriptions. She hates setting price points and distance requirements, selecting the number of bedrooms, or bathrooms, or square feet. Mostly, she hates browsing website after website, from to craigslist, until three in the morning, only to end up apartment-less and pissed off.
After a week of living with her brother and his wife, Emma's had enough. She loves Mary Margaret and David, but she doesn't know if she can handle their lovey-dovey, fairytale romance for another day. To say she's relieved, when she finds the ad in a local newspaper, is an understatement.
It seems odd that the apartment listing was in the newspaper rather than online. Then again she's not in Boston anymore, but tiny, middle of nowhere Storybrooke. Her old hometown, if she can even call it that. She'd only spent her junior and senior year of high school there, but they were the two best years of her youth, up until the end at least.
Emma frowns at the thought of her senior year, shaking her head to dispel the unwanted memories. She'd moved back to Storybrooke to escape a shitty situation, to feel like she belonged somewhere again. Moving back didn't mean that she wanted to relive the bad parts of her past. Emma can't focus on what she did wrong anymore, she's too busy doing something right for once. Starting with finding a new place, maybe even the place listed in the ad that sits in front of her.
The listing is an odd one, to say the least. The language is a little too flowery and over-the-top for her taste but there's a hint of humor in it that makes her smile.
Apartment for Lease
Do you ever fancy a midnight drink? Maybe a quaint view of the sea? Do you ever set your eyes upon a tavern, and yearn not just for a few libations, but for a home?
Well look no further, because all of your fervent desires are about to come true.
The Jolly Roger Tavern is looking for a new tenant to occupy the studio apartment above the bar. Full kitchen and bath, view of the magnificent Maine coast, and the lovely company of a charming, handsome, and mildly hilarious bartender/landlord. Price is set at 350 per month. Neighboring tenant has proven quiet and willing to share conversation, and even a nip of rum if asked nicely.
Any inquiries about the listing should contact the landlord through text rather than call.
Emma smiles, nearly ecstatic with the apartment that so far appears to be her diamond in the rough. The price is reasonable, the location not far from the sheriff's station, it's close to the ocean, and best of all: the price is reasonable.
She finds the number at the bottom of the ad and shoots off a quick text. It's straight to the point, saying she's interested in the apartment, and would like to drop by and see it. Figuring it doesn't matter until she ends up meeting the guy in person, she doesn't give her name or any other personal details. It's not like they'll be signing a contract or negotiating a deal over text or anything.
The reply comes an hour later.
Absolutely. You can drop by right before opening, if you'd like. 10 a.m. next Saturday morning sound good to you?
Sounds great, see you then.
Emma breathes a sigh of relief. After what feels like months of searching, and consequently months of failing, she finally feels like she's on the right path toward finding a home; her home. The thought sends a pleasant chill down her spine, like it's fate or destiny, or some other equally sappy kind of bullshit, but she quickly shakes the idea off, and continues to bask in the glow of a perfect future on the horizon.
A week later, at 9:58 a.m. Emma parks her yellow bug outside of The Jolly Roger Tavern, and finds herself staring at the establishment.
The outside of the building is gorgeous; in fact the whole street is breathtaking. She's in the older part of town, the old Main Street, from when Storybrooke was first established. The streets are cobbled, the sidewalks cracked, but the edifices of the buildings are the originals, all sporting intricate woodwork in deep, vibrant colors.
The Jolly Roger Tavern is on the historical registry, but when Emma was last in town it was called The Storybrooke Pub and looked a lot less welcoming. The outside's painted a mixture of red, blue, and yellow, with a intricate gold script adorning the main window. She stares hard at the building, and if she's being honest with herself she'd have to admit that it does kind of look a bit like a ship.
As she walks up to the door she feels a chill run down her spine. Emma snorts at that, wondering if perhaps it's Storybrooke itself that makes her think such ridiculous thoughts, like there's some sort of spell over the whole town that forces all the occupants to lose their damn minds.
The door opens with a creak and the ringing of a little bell, which Emma nearly laughs at, feeling like she's just entered an antique shop rather than a fucking bar.
The inside of The Jolly Roger is just as beautiful as the outside. All dark wood and royal reds. The dimmed lights give the space a cozy feeling, and the fireplace on the back wall makes it feel warm and inviting, but not suffocating or stifling. It's like a bar straight out of a fairytale, maybe Goldilocks—just right.
Jesus, Emma, get a grip. She hasn't made a fairytale reference in probably a decade, yet two weeks back in Storybrooke and she's firing them off by the dozens.
Looking for any sign of human existence, Emma scans the space finding nothing.
"Hello?" she calls out, but no reply comes her way.
Confused and feeling the first twinges of annoyance Emma reaches for her phone with the intention of checking her messages with Mr. Landlord to make sure she'd gotten the date and time correct. Before she can even unlock the screen the sound of heavy footsteps on wood interrupt her.
"Sorry about that lass, been downstairs doing inventory for the past hour and didn't hear you come in," a thick, accented voice comes from behind her.
Emma can't breathe. She can't think. She's rooted to the ground. her hand clutches her phone so hard she thinks she might shatter it along with herself.
"Lass?"
That voice. God, that voice. That's the same voice that's haunted her dreams, and fuck who's she kidding, the same voice that's haunted her every waking moment for the past ten years.
"Are you okay, love?" He's closer now, and her back is still turned to him. He doesn't know, God he doesn't know. If she were stronger she'd walk out the door and never look back but she's not, and his hastily used "love" makes her so, so much weaker. So she turns, slowly, dreading the moment, before she faces the man she swore she'd never face again.
Her eyes meet his. Emma witnesses the very moment he recognizes her, his mouth falls open and his eyes widen.
Oh God, his eyes, those startlingly blue eyes. She's never forgotten them. Even the slow pass of time on her memory has done little to dull the vibrancy of those eyes.
"Emma?" he whispers quietly. So quietly she barely hears it. but she's so attuned to him, so focused on everything he's doing, like her mind and body remembers how it used to be, remembers how they used to be, that there's no way she could miss it. There's no way she could miss the breathlessness of his voice, the way it trembles slightly. Who knew so much emotion could be packed into two syllables.
His hand that isn't currently holding a bundle of bar rags has shifted forward a bit, as if to reach for her, but it's clenched into a fist and nothing has ever hurt more, she thinks.
"Hi, Killian."