A/N: If you've never heard of a Polar Bear Plunge, it's an event that takes place in cooler climates where people will dive into very cold water on New Year's Day. It's crazy and a whole lot of people do it, and they do it for many different reasons.
"Welcome, welcome, one and all to the annual New Year's Day Polar Bear Plunge! For those of you brave souls taking the plunge, we will be diving in in about 5 minutes. The water is currently a brisk, thirty-seven degrees fahrenheit. Brrr… We sure hope you all ate up over the holidays. That extra layer of fat can only help!" laughed the announcer, his words echoing and half-garbled beneath the screech of feedback and the groans of everyone around.
Emma Swan—not a fan of winter—shivered beneath several layers of clothes, as she leaned against a lifeguard stand, her beach bag at her feet, and her gaze trained on the softly breaking waves lapping against the crowded, picturesque New England shore. A light breeze skimmed the hair away from her face and shoulders and reddened her cheeks and nose. Normally the view of never-ending blue sky and deeper blue ocean was her salvation after a tough week, day, or, on one or two occasions, hour. Today was something a little different. Less salvation and more...idiotic.
Reflexively, she bounced on the balls of her feet and blew into her cupped hands before shoving them back in her pockets to generate some warmth, grateful it was not a typical, frigid winter morning complete with a harsh, biting wind coming off the water. Five degrees colder or one, single, flake of snow, and Emma Swan would not be fidgeting among this throng of people waiting to dive into what might as well be arctic waters in the world's most fucked up New Year's Day tradition.
Pull yourself together. "It's just water," she mumbled to herself, in what was not one of her more convincing pep talks.
She could still back out. Right now. No one would know or care. She was doing this ridiculous stunt for herself and hadn't told any of her friends what she was planning. As far as they knew, she was sharing their fate: either hours into a hungover day in bed, or hugging the toilet like a long, lost pal. Emma spent most of the New Year's Eve party at Mary Margaret's making damn sure her friends were too drunk to notice she wasn't, which turned out to be more amusing than she could have hoped. At the moment, though, she would trade every blackmailable moment for a shot of liquid courage. But no matter how easy it would be to pack up and go home, Emma was determined to stay.
Last year had been...well, shitty. There was no sugar-coating the nasty, and rather loud, public break up with Whatshisname (he wasn't worth remembering, but the flame of anger that fanned through her body when his shaggy hair and blasé attitude about all things Emma crossed her mind was motivational if not warmth-inducing). Nor could she forget the insane number of hours she worked (in trying to forget that asshole in the first place) that eventually lead to a month-long partnership with the flu during the best weather of the year, adding insult to injury. Emma could not have been more grateful to see last year in her rearview, but she still felt...beaten, frankly. She wanted nothing more than to conquer something...anything to make her feel in control of her own life again.
Maybe jumping into an ocean during the winter was a bit on the dramatic (and let's be real, foolish) side, since the only good feelings she had toward the cold extended exclusively to beer and ice cream, but not at the same time. She'd always thought this particular event a bit nuts, and the people who did it short a few brain cells, but when she saw the reminder in the paper about it the week before Christmas, she knew exactly the statement she wanted to make. It sounded something like "Fuck you, I can do anything." Including running head-long into freezing water and living to tell the tale.
Even though Emma was feeling equal parts bold and apprehensive about this little venture, she wasn't stupid. Kneeling down, she dug through her bag one more time to make sure she had everything she needed: towels, extra pair of socks, extra t-shirt for when she came out, and her keys in a handy location so she could get the hell back home to a bath in her preferred temperature: a few degrees short of scalding.
Emma's goal was to come out of that icy ocean without the anger and disappointment she'd felt in herself after letting the events of the past several months overtake her. She wanted to let it float out to sea never to be heard from again. Mary Margaret was always going on about being open to the possibility of good things happening, and Emma generally rolled her eyes in response. That was never how her life had unfolded before. More like the opposite, really. But Mary Margaret was happy. Loved. Content. So maybe she was on to something. Maybe Emma needed to shock her system into thinking something different. Something hopeful.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the squeal of the PA system as the announcer took to the microphone again. "One minute, folks! When you hear the sound of the gun, it's time to dive on in! Good luck and thanks for joining the 2015 polar plunge!"
Killian Jones stepped onto the beach, hefting his pack onto his shoulder, just as the announcer gave the five minute warning. He scanned the area, noting the surprisingly large crowd, and decided to leave his belongings by the lifeguard tower at the edge of area marked off for the swimmers. This wasn't his first go at a polar plunge by any means, having lived in northern coastal towns most of his life where this kind of thing was a tradition amongst the locals, and he had learned the hard way that getting into the middle of the crowd as it raced in was never a good plan. In fact, you ended up with no choice over when you dove in, because inevitably someone would knock you down in their haste to get things over with. No, the outskirts were always the best option.
He jogged over to the tower, which he could now see had one other swimmer using its shelter to stash her bag as well. He could only see her long, blonde hair blowing back in the light wind that was always a part of the oceanside, but he heard her mumble, "It's just water," and grinned. He recalled saying the same thing the first time he decided to participate in one of these events. Bloody frigid water, he thought, correcting her assessment.
Taking a step closer, Killian considered reassuring the woman that all would be well, but the stiffness in her posture stopped him. He could sense from the sigh she let out that it was more than just the regular cold temperatures making her tense. She was obviously working through something and he dare not interrupt. Instead, he settled his bag at the corner of the stand a couple of feet behind her so she could have some space, and began taking off his jacket, trainers, and baggy, worn, Navy PT pants, leaving him in a black zippered sweatshirt and dark blue board shorts as he waited for the starting gun to fire.
He dug his toes into the cold sand, the grains sliding around and forming to his feet, and he smiled to himself. Being at the beach never failed to remind him of all the times Liam used to bury him in the sand on hot days when they were kids during the years before Liam left for the Navy. Liam would bury Killian up to his neck, then Killian would break free of the sandy mound, coated in light gray muck, and chase Liam until his brother inevitably turned the tables and pushed his younger brother right into the freezing, salty, ocean water with a look of triumph only a big brother could wear. That was, until Killian, soaked and shivering, would stand up and launch himself at Liam, capturing him in a cold and clammy bear hug that he knew his very warm and dry brother detested. Not a day went by he didn't miss Liam and all the ways he reminded Killian who was the older, wiser, brother. Smug bastard.
Killian's chest ached as it did anytime he thought of his brother, and he took a deep, shaky breath to get control over the tears that threatened to make an appearance as they were still wont to do even though Liam had been gone for several years. The wind wasn't strong enough to use as an excuse for watering eyes should anyone even bother looking at him. Luckily, he was new to town and the lifeguard stand blocked him from the view of those nearby. Well, almost everyone.
The woman in front of Killan knelt down to rifle through her bag, catching his attention and allowing him the view of her very pretty profile—to include a sprinkling of freckles peppered across the bridge her nose and spilling onto high, rounded, cheekbones—and reminded him of one more thing he needed to do. Reaching into the outside pocket of his pack, he pulled out a black grease pencil, and pushing up the left sleeve of his sweatshirt, he wrote "Liam" on his forearm, then tossed the pencil on top of his bag.
The announcer made his final warning and Killian took a deep breath, then shed his sweatshirt, leaving him in just his trunks accompanied by an involuntary shiver. He was about to stuff the sweatshirt back in his bag along with the pencil, when the woman in front of him began shedding her own (many) layers of clothes. It's not that he'd never seen a woman strip down—quite the contrary—but the purposeful way she took off each piece of clothing, and the determined set of her shoulders and head as she stood waiting for the gun to go off, was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. This was obviously more than just a lark to her and he was more intrigued than he would admit.
She had undressed, leaving her in a bikini with a swim shirt over it, showing off her well-toned figure, and with a toss of her long, blonde hair she shook her arms, and he heard her say, "It's now or never."
Before he could wish her luck or say anything else, the gun went off and she began to trot toward the water as focused as a woman on a mission could possibly be. Killian smiled, impressed with her spirit and obvious will and followed happily along behind her.