Silver Hook's Playbook

by CanadianSnowflake

Based off the novel "The Silver Lining's Playbook" Killian Jones has recently been let out of a mental hospital by his sister Mary-Margaret and is staying with she and her husband, David Nolan. When David's sister, Emma, who is still grieving over her recently desceased husband, is added to the mix, how will Killian recover from his divorce? Captain Swan :) AH/AU

Hello! So, I have some bad news. About 6 months ago, my computer hard drive just crashed. All of my stories were gone. Things that were to be published, school papers, things that were going to be published . . . I am really upset. However, I have been writing. I will have to write some new chapters for some of the old stories that I published so stick with me. This is a new story that I am really proud of based off of the novel "The Silver Linings Playbook" I hope you enjoy. x

I DONT HAVE TO LOOK UP TO KNOW MY SISTER IS VISITING AGAIN.

She always has periwinkle toenails in the summer months, and she has ever since we were kids; I also recognize the black flats she wears on her feet because they were the shoes she had bought when we had last gone shopping with one another after she signed me out of here and took me to the mall.

Once again, she finds me in an old high-school sailing shirt and shorts, exercising unattended in the courtyard, and I smile because I know she will yell at Dr. Hopper, asking him why I need to be locked up if I'm only going to be left alone all day. It was a valid point, I had to admit. "Just how many push-ups are you going to do, Killian?" She asks as I start my third set of one hundred without speaking to her.

"Milah—Likes—A—Man—With—A—Developed—Upper—Body." I say spitting out one word for every pushup. I hear Mary Margaret sigh and she watches me for about another minute or so before, with a sort of shaky voice, asking me: "Do you want to come home with me today?"

I stop doing pushups and turn my face upward, searching my sister's eyes. My sister was a terrible liar, and the crease between her eyebrows told me she was serious; Mary-Margaret was here to possibly get me out of here. "As long as you promise not to go looking for Milah again," she adds, "you can finally come home and live with me and David until we find you a job and get you set up in an apartment."

"Kil, just say you'll come home with me, and I'll cook for you and you can visit with your old friends and start to get on with your life finally. Please. I need you to want this. I-I-I can't see you suffer anymore," She adds. When I look up again, her bottom lip seems to be quivering and I know she is trying her damnedest not to cry. "Alright," I say standing up.

She takes off the sunglasses that have been covering her brown eyes and smiles in a sort of endearing way at me, and hugs me, not minding the sweat that runs down my body. "Oh David'll be so happy to see you, Killy!" She says, drudging up her horrid childhood nickname for me. I smile somewhat awkwardly—I wasn't good with affection, something I had been trying to work on. For Milah. Mary-Margaret keeps talking and I have to take a few deep breaths to control my thoughts. I had to get in the right frame of mind. Once you get in the right frame of mind, I think anything's possible. I think we often get caught in this state of negativity and it's a, it's a poison like nothing else—so I had been trying to be positive, for Milah.

Mary-Margaret is signing papers and talking with Dr. Hopper when I come out of my room from packing my bag. My roommate, Charlie, had been silent, as usual, when I was packing. Charlie had some sort of ADHD and the medicine they had put him on, had made him virtually silent. I felt like I was talking to a vegetable sometimes.

". . . Technically, you can take him out against our recommendation, but you assume a lot of liability in the eyes of the court. And he's just getting used to the routine here . . ." Dr. Hopper pleads with my sister.

Mary-Margaret's eyebrows raise in anger and determination. "I don't want him to get used to the routine here. Eight months is already long enough." My sister says in frustration. Dr. Hopper looks at me with a sort of fear and skepticism when I walk over. I see my sister signing her name on the line assuming any/all liability for me. Dr. Hopper was a flighty man, with a tuft of orange hair on top of his head, beady eyes that hid behind glasses and he always wore odd plaid shirts and beige sweater vests.

He sighed, pulling on his hair. "I understand, but Mrs. Nolan," Hopper pleads. "You heard me, Archie." She says sternly. He looks away. "I'll give you the scripts for his medication," He says. He scribbles something on a doctor's pad and goes to hand Mary Margaret and I take the script, winking at him. He has the scared look in his eye again and I smirk. "Thanks, mate," I say walking away. Mary-Margaret follows me closely. "I am out on a limb for you with the courts right now," She whispers fiercely.

"Can we stop at the library? I wanna read Milah's entire English high school syllabus," I say. My sister gives me a side glance, indicating her worry. "Mar, it's a good thing. I'm remaking myself," I say, with a flamboyant hand gesture. I needed her to believe in me. She had to believe me. She sighs and smiles. "I suppose—I wanted to say hello to Belle anyways . . ."

Ten books later, we pull up to my sister's apartment. My sister lives in an old two story apartment. The majority of it is exposed brick, and old wood that creaks loudly if you step on the wrong board. There's a sort of easiness about the place, and the vintage vibe that my sister adored so much. David was well whipped when it came to my sister's needs and wants, something that didn't bother me in the slightest.

David greets us outside after Mary-Margaret sends him a quick text. David is a tall guy with dirty blonde hair, and nine-times out of ten wore some sort of flannel. When we were in high school he had been deemed "Prince Charming" by most of the other girls. He smiles at me, giving me a warm pat on the back. "Killian Jones," He says cocking his head to the side in a smile. I give him a warm grin. "Hello, Dave." I indicate. "Just in time for the game," He says. I take my bag out of the back and my books and follow the couple inside.

We walked inside and I asked David how he was doing. He shrugged. "Good, I guess. Work has been quiet lately," He says motioning to the Sheriff's badge on his belt. I chuckle. "Well, once you put me behind bars, suppose most of your problems disappeared," I said, a slight bit of anger in my voice. "Kil," Mary-Margaret says. David looks away, and I see him clench his jaw. It was a point of animosity between the couple: David had put me away after "K-Day", as it had been called, and David had been the one on duty that night.

David forces a smile and asks, "Okay, the question, the big question, is what are you gonna do with yourself now?" He asks, rolling over my question. "What am I gonna do? I'm getting in shape, I'm getting trim, I'm getting really fit for Milah. I'm gonna read Milah's teaching syllabus and get my old job back." I answer staring at him with narrowed eyes. "Milah sold the house. She left. Didn't your sister tell you that?" He said. I could feel the anger beginning to prickle at my skin.

"David," My sister says in a quiet plea. "Let me tell you something. You don't know anything about my marriage, okay, Dave? All right? Our marriage...we're very, very much in love, okay? Just like you two." I say moving my hands between the pair. David scoffs. "Killian, you're one of my best friends, and I feel obligated to tell you that . . ." The phone rings and he answers. His eyes narrow before he nods. He hangs up, claiming that work was calling. "I gotta go." He says. He kisses my sister's cheek and looks to me. He sighs. "I'm glad you're here, Killian. Missed seeing you around," He says. I roll my eyes and smile, and give him a side hug. "No hard feelings, Dave. Go to work," I say. He smiles and ducks out the door.

My sister sighs, putting her head in her hands. "I just want things to be normal again," My sister says. I put an arm around her shoulder and hold her comfortingly. "Things are gonna be better than ever, Mary-Margaret. I promise. I-I'll stop antagonizing Dave, okay?" I ask, trying to make her feel better. She sniffs, looking up at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You mean it?" She asks. I nod.

"Yeah, it'll be great! Milah and I'll be back together, you and Dave—Sunday night dinners, just like they used to be." I say. She watches me and nods, shaking her head. "Dave's sister, Emma, she's coming over tomorrow night, for dinner," She says. I rack my head for the name that sounds familiar. "I've heard of her," I say. Mary Margaret looks around, like someone might hear before whispering the words: "Her husband, Graham, died a few months ago. He was the Sheriff."

I feel a sort of sadness wash over me. "Oh," I say simply. Mary-Margaret sighs. "She was really beaten up after it. They were . . . they were good together, I guess. Anyways, just try not to bring it up? Huh?" She asks, lightly. "Yeah, of course," I say with a reassuring smile. I had known Graham a while back—nice guy. I had never met Dave's sister, and I imagined her to be somewhat like him. She probably adored flannel tops, too.

Mary-Margaret took me upstairs to the room where I would be staying in and I smiled gratefully. I kissed her cheek, winked and pulled out a book. Time to start reading.

I spent the night and most of the next day reading. I was currently reading The Great Gatsby and I found myself frustrated. Fitzgerald had no belief in any sort of happy ending for Gatsby. I sigh. I decide to shower, throwing on a white t-shirt and dark jeans along with my leather jacket. I looked presentable enough.

I hear Mary-Margaret cooking something as David announces that he's home. I walk down stairs and my sister smiles. "Emma will be here soon," My sister says, stirring a pot of sauce. "Oh, alright then." I say. Mary-Margaret asks me to make sure the table was set and when I come back in, I am surprised at who I see.

She's pretty—long golden hair that hangs in loose curls down to the small of her back. Her skin is pale, dotted with a few moles that reminded me of the little dipper. She was average height, and of a slender build. She turned and I saw her eyes, which were the color of sea-glass. She was pretty. She wore a pretty light pink sweetheart dress, but on top of it, a black leather jacket. I remembered Dave buying her a leather jacket a few years ago.

She is talking to David when I come around the corner. She watches me for a few moments. An uncomfortable tremor goes through the air and I finally break it: "You look nice." I say. No "Hello", or "It's nice to meet you". I just say what I think. I'm honest, something Milah would like. She blinks once, before responding with a simple, "Thank you." I realize she must have taken this as flirting, so I change the topic. "I wasn't flirting with you. If that's what you thought." I say. "Oh, I didn't think that." She responds, blinking her eyelashes once. She has a thick coat of mascara over them and when I watch her I can tell she has small freckles concealed under a layer of powder.

"I just see that you made an effort, and I'm gonna be better with my wife. I'm working on that. I wanna acknowledge her beauty. I never used to do that. I do now. Just practicing. How'd Graham die?" The word vomit is out before I can stop it, and I silently slap myself. The medication made it hard for me to concentrate, or be as smooth as I used to be. In short, the medication really screwed my social skills.

She looks hurt, then shocked, then angry. I decide before she can open her lips, to speak: "How's your job?" I ask, trying to find a safer ground. "I just got fired, actually." She says in a deadpan. I realize a lot of her is sort of "dead". Lifeless. I wondered if that happened after Graham died or if she had always been like that.

"Oh really how?" I ask. At her blink again, I continue on. "I mean, I'm sorry. How'd that happen?" I ask. She scoffs, tossing a look to David. "Does it really matter?" She asks, rolling her eyes. David puts a hand on the back of his neck, something he does when he gets nervous and Mary-Margaret interrupts to conversation to tell us dinner is ready.

Dave hurries out of the room and Emma follows after him. She stops for a second, and turns her head over her shoulder and says, "Let's go get dinner."

"Killian was a teacher on Marine History at the high school, Emma. Ask him about anything nautical, he knows it all." David says. We were eating some salad and pasta when Emma sets her eyes on me. Her eyes squint in a way, looking at me over the fluorescent light. "Do you know where the term "Davy Jones' Locker" comes from?" I ask.

"No. No, I don't." Mary-Margaret says, shaking her head, a polite smile coming to her face. "Where?" David asks. Emma stays silent. "It's a nautical term that dates back to the 1700s. Davy Jones was sailor slang for the Devil. To send someone to Davy Jones meant killing the individual. Being "sent to Davy Jones Locker" implies that you were not going to heaven." I say.

"Really?" David asks, tossing a glance to his sister, who is chewing on a piece of lettuce. "Yeah. Pretty cool, right?" I ask. "That's interesting." Dave says, taking a sip of his beer. "You know, Emma has her own dance studio. She's been doing dance for a few years, she's real good at it." David says. "Oh really? My wife loves dance. Milah loves dance." I interject taking a bite of the lettuce. It was bland and sort of sad looking, kind of like Emma. "Why do you have to talk about me like that?" Emma asks staring intently at David.

"I'm just bragging about you. Can't I brag about my little sister?" David asks, laughing a little. "Don't talk about me in the third person." Emma says, her eyes narrowing again. I wondered if maybe she couldn't see well and needed glasses or—"Please, Em, give me a break." David says, in a sort of annoyed/angry tone. "I'm right here." Emma says, her tone the same as if she were talking about the weather.

"Just be nice. Just be nice." David says. I can tell by the clenching and unclenching of his fingers he was annoyed. A lull in conversation occurs, before Emma asks: "What medication are you on?" The question catches me slightly off guard, before I laugh a little and say, "Me? None. I used to be on Lithium and Seroquel and Abilify, but I don't take them anymore, no. They make me foggy, and I need to be sharp if I ever want to keep up with Milah. She has a quick wit." I explain, trying to get her to crack a smile. She doesn't. I realize I want her to smile. To show some sort of emotion other than this depression and pain.

"Yeah, I was on Xanax and Effexor, but I agree, I wasn't as sharp, so I stopped." She answers simply. "You ever take Klonopin?" I ask. "Klonopin," She says. She chuckles, but it sounds somewhat forced, bitter maybe, and she nods. "Yeah," She says. "Crazy, right?" I ask smiling. Her eyes widen and a small smirk comes to her face. "Jesus!" She says. I smile. "It's like, "'What? What day is it?'How about Trazodone?" I ask. She laughs. It's a genuine one this time, or I assume it is (hope), and she smiles at me, focusing solely on me.

"Oh, it flattens you out. I mean, you are done. It takes the light right out of your eyes." I say. "Oh I bet it does," She says taking a sip of her water. A few moments of awkward silence pass. Mary-Margaret and David look more uncomfortable than I have seen them look in a while. Emma stands up. "I'm tired. I wanna go." She says, looking around the home exasperated.

"No. No, no, no, no. We haven't, we haven't even finished the salad yet, or the duck. Mary-Margaret made the Fire and Ice cake." David says, putting his hand out. "I said I'm tired." She says. She looks to me. "Are you gonna walk me home, or what?" She asks, her voice sounding almost annoyed. "Me?" I ask incredulously. "Yeah, you. Are you gonna walk me home?" She asks.

"You have poor social skills." I remark sitting back on my chair. She scoffs. "I have a problem? You say more inappropriate things than appropriate things. You scare people." She says rolling her eyes. I chuckle dryly. "I tell the truth. You're mean." I say. "What? I'm not telling the truth?" She asks. "Maybe I should take Emma home?" Mary-Margaret asks. "You can drive them both home. Now." David says angrily. "Live here, mate," I tease with a wink. His face almost goes a funny shade of purple. "Stop talking about me in third person." Emma says again.

"Take Emma home." David says through clenched teeth. "You love it when I have problems. You love it, Dave, because then you can be the good one. Just say it." Emma remarks. David seems to soften at that remark. "No, Em . . .I don't. I don't. I just wanted to have a nice, I just wanted to have a nice dinner," He says. Emma rolls her eyes. "Oh okay," She says. "What's your problem?" David asks, standing up. "Nothing's my problem! I'm fine. I'm tired and I wanna go." Emma says. She looks to me. "Come on, are you ready?" She asks.

I stand up. "You really, you really wanna go right now?" David asks, incredulously. "Yes, I really wanna go! It's been great." Emma says walking out the door. I toss a look to David and Mary-Margaret before helplessly following her.

We walk in silence for the better part of ten minutes. She lives in a small cottage in the woods. There, nestled into a small clearing in the forest, was a tiny stone cottage, lavender gray in the light of the stars... Honeysuckle climbed up one wall like a lattice, winding all the way up and over the thick wooden shingles. Late summer roses bloomed in the handkerchief-sized garden under the dark, deep-set windows. There was a little path of flat stones, amethyst in the night, that led up to the quaint arched wooden door. It was simple, elegant, kind of like Emma.

"This is me," She says, casually. I go to nod and turn, when she catches my arm. "Listen, I haven't dated since before my marriage so I don't really remember how this works," She says. I feel confusion drift over my features. "How what works?" I ask, furrowing my brow. She looks around, her eyes like a cat's, untrusting and unsure.

"I saw the way you were looking at me, Killian. You felt it, I felt it, don't lie. We're not liars like they are. I hate the fact that you wore just white t-shirt to dinner, but you can fuck me if you turn the lights off, okay?" She asks. I am stunned into silence for a moment. The first question pops out of my mouth, "How old are you?" I ask, confused. "Old enough to have a marriage end and not wind up in a mental hospital." She retorts. That hurts. I rub the back of my neck, trying not to gt angry when I say, "Look, I had a really good time tonight and I think you're really pretty, but I'm married, okay?" I say. I wanted to be delicate, Milah liked delicacy.

I hold up my left hand where my wedding band shines dimly under the stars. She scoffs. "You're married? So am I." She says, holding up her hand. A simple gold band. "No that's confusing, he's dead." I say shaking my head. She goes still and silent, watching me as I see the tears gathering in her eyes. Suddenly she's hugging me to her, so tightly it almost hurts. I rest my chin on top of her shiny gold hair, the smell of her perfume, everything about her invades my senses. Suddenly she let's go, and runs to her house and slams the door shut.