Spring
"So, are shallots just little onions? Is that why you use them when you cook for yourself?"
"They're technically onions, but the flavor is subtler. I use them because I love how sharp they are raw, and that they sweeten up when they cook. It doesn't hurt that they're portioned for a loner like me."
Swan watched with fervent eyes as he chopped smoothly through the shallots in question. Her brows arched up and furrowed down with each stroke of the knife, and every ingredient added to the roasting pan. Everything he cooked fascinated her, and to be honest, he was more than a little pleased by her interest.
"Why aren't you peeling them?" she asked as she rounded the counter to peer more closely at his cutting. Killian sucked in an icy breath, but didn't remark about her nearness, or the cold that came with her. She tended to get a bit upset when he complained about the chill, and he really couldn't afford more dishes.
"The skins give the gravy its flavor. I'll only be using the liquid, so the paper won't really matter."
"Paper?"
"The skins."
He chopped through the remaining shallots and added the rest of the aromatics – celery, carrots and bay leaves – to the roasting pan, then gently placed the already-browned pork loin onto its roasting rack. This was an old recipe, one of his mum's, but he hadn't made it in ages.
"Now, hopefully, the pork releases enough liquid to provide the base for my gravy. If not, I think I'll add beef broth tonight, since I have it in the larder. Usually, I'd make a pork broth, but my loin came already dressed."
That made Swan titter behind her hazy-edged hand, and he could only rolls his eyes. Her humor, he quickly learned, leaned towards the juvenile end of the spectrum. Then again, he enjoyed the occasional bodily function joke, so he wouldn't blame her. Plus, he was alive and she wasn't.
"And then you'll serve it with potatoes and rice?"
Shaking his head, he shoved the roast in the oven and turned his sights to the mess. Good company as his Swan was, she was shit at cleaning.
"Either or, but not both. You only need one starch with your meal, if any. I think I'll serve it with just carrots tonight."
Tipping her fine, stubborn chin down to her chest, Swan hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs back and forth. Her heels passed clear through the lower cabinets – he knew it hurt her. Most of her ghost tricks did.
That, and they were fucking freaky.
Ghost-Girl was standing there. She was very beautiful, and very dead.
Holy shit, there was a dead girl standing in front of him!
"Oh my sweet Jesus!" Killian shouted as he sprung to his feet. Ghost-Girl gasped and stepped backwards, a stricken look crossing her face. He discovered how much he didn't care about her discomfort as he ran straight to his room. Who gave a shit about her feelings? She was dead and dear god his house was haunted. Liam was right, and Liam was never right about anything. Why did he have to be right about this?
Killian slammed the door shut and promptly locked it, his hands sweaty and shaking as he fought with the knob. Not that it really mattered. Swan was already in there, standing by his closet door, looking rather faded and not altogether there - he wasn't about to check, but he was pretty sure he feet weren't there.
"Please don't be freak out," she pleaded as she held her wispy hands up in surrender. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"They all say that!" Killian nearly screeched as he ran to the other side of the bed. "And then they hurt you! That's what all ghost say in the movies, right before they stall your heart or car!"
Ghost-Girl rolled her eyes and propped her hands on her hips. Her surprisingly lovely and gently flaring hips.
"How many ghosts wear gym shorts and sports bras?"
Gym shorts and what?
It took all of his bravery, but Killian sucked in a deep breath and gave the ghost a better look. She was blonde, leggy, and totally wearing those teeny gym shorts cheerleaders wore. They were navy blue and so tight they looked painted on. The last time he saw shorts like that, they had something insipid written across the seat, like 'juicy' or 'jailbait.'
But it was the sports bra that got to him. It was even pink and smaller than her shorts. Dead or not, Ghost-Girl was pretty thing. Most women lost their curves in a sports bra. The one she wore behaved like a corset and pushed those sweater puppies to new heights. perhaps a ghost with implants?
"This could be the plot to one of the sexier movies?"
God that sounded lame even to him.
"You wish," she sighed petulantly as she sat down on the bed. More coldness, more cinnamon and vanilla, and above him, the ceiling lamp sputtered to a stop. He was used to all of it by now. What he wasn't used to was Ghost-Girl, and her most unhappy frown. It pulled her entire face down until her chin was tucked against her neck. She sat there quietly, looking morose, which made him feel morose, and bloody hell feeling morose sucked.
Suddenly it all made sense.
"You're sad," he whispered as he moved around the bed to stand in front of her. So his knees may have wobbled a bit. At least he was making progress. "That's why things go wonky around here. It's because you're sad."
Ghost-Girl lifted her face and nodded solemnly. She had chubby cheeks and a thin mouth.
"I can't control it," came her small-voiced reply. "Normal people can cry. If I get upset, I cool down a room faster than an open door in a snowstorm. I don't mean to break your stuff."
Her words sent a chill up his spine. And not because the room was fucking freezing. What to do, what to do. Should he call an exorcist? A ghost hunter? His brother to apologize?
Fuck no on that last one.
"I get it," he murmured uncertainly."Really, I do. Being dead must be awful."
Ghost-Girl shook her head, which made the tips of her hair curl like smoke.
"Honestly, loneliness is worse. I don't remember being alive. For a while, I thought I was alive, and just invisible. I don't know if I'm dead. I just know that I'm lonely."
Killian was still terrified and about to cry, but looking down at her, he saw passed her translucent skin and floaty hair. Maybe he saw a little bit of himself, or maybe he saw a lost girl, but he abandoned his grand speech about walking towards the light and settled on something much simpler.
"How about… Why don't watch a movie? The Wes Anderson one?"
Anything to get warm really, but it made Ghost-Girl happy. She smiled and stretched her slender, pale limbs as she stood up. This close to her, he couldn't help but notice that her neck was as graceful and long as a swan's.
Wait a tic.
"I think I know what I'll call you."
And she'd been Swan ever since. Just like the bird, she couldn't sing and had quite the temper when it came to her turf. But she brightened up his day with her golden, feathery self, and a live-in best friend certainly beat loneliness, even if he was on his third set of dishes.
Peeling a bunch of purple carrots, he gave Swan a leering once-over, secure in the knowledge that her eyes were glued to the television in the living room. Her favorite show was on, and while he wasn't partial to The Golden Girls, he was partial to her. Swan's skin, her eyes, her hair, even the clothes. She was that cool, sporty girlfriend all men wanted and falsely claimed to have. No makeup, natural hair, and miles of creamy, sugary skin.
And heels that looked rather bruised as they passed through the cabinet. Splotchy and purple and just plain angry.
"You're hurting yourself," he reminded her pointedly as he set a pan on the stove. "You should keep your legs still."
Swan shrugged and watched Blanche Devereaux prance around in a chicken costume, but her luminous cheeks flushed petal pink.
"It's not so bad," she mumbled moodily, but hopped off the counter nonetheless. A childish reaction, one he'd normally hate. She was off the counter though, and not needlessly hurting herself, which counted as a victory in his book.
"Not as bad as when you hopped through the fence. You must've been blistered for days."
Passing through walls and solid objects, arguably the most famous ghost trick, was certainly the hardest for Swan. She could do it, she'd told him one night over a cup of Darjeeling and The Darjeeling Limited, but it felt like being dunked into scalding water. He saw it in action when he accidentally opened the front door clear through her. Seeing her red and cracked and sobbing was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen, and not because it was the first time she looked truly like a ghost.
The only thing that frightened him was the thought of her in pain.
"Will Liam ever come back?" Swan asked as she plopped down on the couch, pulling him from his maudlin thoughts. She crossed her slender arms on the backs of the leather cushions and rested her chin on her forearms, smiling his second favorite smile. Not the toothy one that wrinkled her eyes and crinkled her nose. She only smiled like that when she laughed, and that's why it was his favorite.
This second favorite smile was closed-lipped and secretive. It said Swan knew something he didn't, and she was just dying to tell him – but that she wouldn't.
"I'm not sure, love," Killian chuckled. "But I'll let you know if he does. You can bunk with me should he ever show his face here again."
Swan laughed and smiled his favorite smile.
And all was right with the world.
"Make a list of twenty on-trend spring fabric patterns by seven, Ms. Lucas," Ruby whined in a high-pitched imitation of Regina. "Or you can forget New York fashion week in the fall. How the fuck am I supposed to decide what's trending for spring? Everyone wears head-to-toe white around here."
"You're a fashion writer, Ruby. It's your job to know," Killian supplied as he typed up his article on Maine's best farmers markets. "In other words, make it up."
"Judging from the speed of your fingers, you're doing the same thing Killian," Will piped in from his desk.
He was right about the speed. Killian's fingers were all but flying over his keyboard. He'd spent the last week eating organic roughage in Storybrooke, Maine for the past week. Without Swan to provide her acerbic wit, he'd been bored out of his mind. But after consuming roughly forty pounds of raw vegetables, incredibly regular.
"I just want to be home. It was colder than a witch's tit up there, and dryer than the Sahara. Three yarn stores and not a single brew-through."
Ruby and Will laughed at his humor, hopefully taking it at face value. They viewed him as their office's lonely, bitter bachelor, and spent most of their time trying to set him up. Ruby had, on more than one occasion, offered herself up as a pity fuck. Will mostly brought him strippers and various college students. If they knew he had a woman waiting at home, they'd bust his balls. Given that the women in question was dead, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut.
The whole week, not a day went by where he didn't think of her. Was she bored? Lonely?
Gone?
God, he hoped not. Sure, they squabbled like an old married couple sometimes, and on more than one occasion, they'd divided the house in two to avoid seeing each other, but he'd miss her if she left. He missed his brother of course, but when Liam left, it was just to his home in London. If Swan was to leave, he suspected her departure would be slightly more permanent.
So he left plenty for her to do, just to keep her from walking towards any alluring lights or cloaked figures. The television in the living room was set to Turner Classic Movies, while HBO aired in the master bedroom. In the kitchen, she could dance to indie rock on the XM radio, or enjoy books on tape in the bathroom. He fully expected his electric bill to be outrageous this month, but Swan was worth more than money.
"Fuck it, I'm over this shit," Ruby declared suddenly. "I'm writing this article over florals. Chicks can dress like my grandmother this season."
"And the men are going to visit microbreweries in Austin, Texas so I can go to South by Southwest," Will added in the same tired tone.
Killian looked over his shoulder, catching Will's computer screen from the corner of his eye. An invitation to SXSW from a creative advertising firm in Dallas was front and center. The company belonged to one very pretty media executive named Lacey French, who may or may not have been married. Whatever. Will was a grown ass man.
"You two get to fake your way to the top, and serious writers like I have to do actual reporting," he scolded as he finished up his paragraph on kale, which was one of the saddest things he'd ever written.
Faking it or not, they were both out the door an hour earlier before he was; and even if their articles were complete bollocks, at least they were done. Another half hour passed before he was on the road home, but at least his grab bag of agricultural terms somewhat resembled an article (as opposed to Ruby's list and Will's drunken rant).
Boston's rush hour traffic nearly did him in with more than one illegal lane change, but he made the drive in record time. All for Swan. Always for Swan.
Pulling up into the driveway, he smiled at the blinding light coming through the windows. Outside, the world was dim with the setting sun, but inside, a star had gone supernova. With any hope, the floor would be scattered with icy shards of broken plates.
Faster than he usually moved, and far clumsier, he barreled out of his car and ran to the trunk. He had gifts for her – flowers. As many as he could grab on his last day in Storybrooke. Irises, alstroemeria, hyacinth, daffodils and tulips, all kept on ice for his snowy swan. He just needed to get the cooler out, then he'd come home to (hopefully) an even colder welcome. They'd arrange them in a vase like professional florists, chewing the fat as they trimmed stems and plucked –
"Well, hello Killian. Long time no see."
The little voice coming from behind him might've well have been a police siren. In his surprise at actually being spoken to, he slammed two of his fingers in the trunk, though it felt like his whole fucking arm, bloody hell, where's a saw so I can cut the thing off?!
"Oh no!" Mary Margaret gasped as she came up beside him, a baby-sized blanket-burrito tucked carefully against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, although I doubt that'll make your hand feel better."
He offered her a wincing sort of grin that lost most of its rictus quality when he saw little Sophie's big blue eyes peering at him. Babies had huge eyes, this much he knew, but Sophie's were so somber, so steady. Most babies looked at nothing in particular. He knew that she was looking at him, straight into his soul, and he wasn't sure he liked the attention.
"It's quite alright," he hissed painfully as he cradled his crushed fingers. "I don't work with my hands."
Except I totally do, and fuck this hurts. Wow, that baby has weird eyes
"I'm very sorry. I just wanted to say hello, and ask how you've been," Mrs. Nolan continued, her hand smoothing back some of Sophie's wispy blonde hair. "We haven't seen you running through the neighborhood."
Sophie's pointed stare made him think that by 'we', Mary Margaret meant herself and her daughter, but that was ridiculous. Babies were basically turnips with mouths. Most likely, she meant herself and Detective Nolan. He'd yet to meet the husband in person, but he'd seen him cradling his creepy-eyed newborn with the moon in his eyes. Liam's on-again, off-again bird Elsa had the same look for her toddler (who may or may not have an on-again, off-again, seafaring father).
"I've been away," he muttered as he peered at Sophie. He'd never engaged a baby in a staring contest, nor been so close to losing, but then her eyes flitted to the house. Killian let out an uneasy breath, only to suck in a new one when Sophie's eyes went wide. Her face pinched up like a baby about to cry, which didn't surprise him. Yet she didn't cry. She only turned her neck and tucked her face into her mother's neck, which did surprise them.
"I figured as much," Mary Margaret continued on. "That's why I've had my husband come by every now and then to check on your house. You know you live next door to a cop, right? You don't have to leave on your lights to confuse burglars."
Killian chuckled under his breath and shrugged his shoulders. "Better safe than sorry, my mum always said. She also told me to mind my manners. Taking them into account, would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"
He didn't really want her to come in, lovely and obliging as she was. He just wanted to curl up on his couch with Swan and watch old movies until they were just as old. Mrs. Nolan smiled prettily and turned her eyes to his front door just as her mouth opened. But nothing came out. No agreement or dismissal, no scornful remark. Not even a breath. Her smile fell, and for a second, her eyes and gaze went still as death. If Sophie got her soul-piercing stare from anyone, it had to have been her mother.
Something like a shiver ran up his spine, though it felt more like a death rattle as Mary Margaret stared at his house. Her eyes were those a hawk, until they weren't. Quick as a blink, she was smiling and shifting Sophie against her shoulder, until the baby's face was completely hidden.
"I think I'll pass. David should be home soon, and I don't want to worry him by being out. He's a terrible worrier, no matter what I do to assure him I'm fine," Mary Margaret said sweetly, her heart-shaped face lit brightly with a smile. "You should come over for dinner this weekend and meet him officially. He's spent this last month working with the FBI, which always turns him into a shut-in, so I need to break him out of his antisocial shell."
So many things about that phrase confused him, but he nodded as if he understood and quietly agreed before saying his goodbyes. Mary Margaret curtsied and spun on her heel, marching away to her gingerbread house. Sophie looked at him from over her mother's shoulder, only her all-seeing and brightly blue eyes visible. He looked away quickly, losing their latest staring match.
The interaction completely vanished from his thoughts as he gathered his cooler and suitcase. He set off at a fast walk to the front door, which opened to meet him on a strong gust of wind, and closed as soon as he was in the foyer.
"You're home!" the loveliest voice in the world declared loudly. "You're home, and it's been a million years, and the television won't work. I missed your stupid face. What's in the cooler?"
Killian spun on his heel, looking for the body that went with that voice, but it wasn't there.
"Swan, dearest, you haven't manifested yet. I can't say hello if I can't see you," he laughed as he marched into the kitchen to unload his arms. The roses were dead and brown on the counter.
"Oh man, completely forgot about that," Swan quipped as she blinked into existence. Her slender form flickered and shook until she appeared before him, as solid and lit up as a Christmas tree.
"I'd hug you if I could, darling," he laughed as he moved the vase from the counter to the sink. "Why'd you kill your flowers?"
Swan moved to stand beside him, raising goosebumps on his arms and chilling his breath. He'd never felt more warm inside.
"Because you weren't here."
His eyes met hers, and like a meet cute between Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, time stopped and all he saw was his blonde-haired, video vixen. And while he couldn't hug her, he could smile.
"I'm here now."
AN: I'm sorry this is so short, but spring's already passed and summer's here. I'm even more sorry for the delay, but while I wasn't writing, I was graduating, getting my grown-up job, moving clear across the state and dealing with some legendary flooding. But I'm here now, and to make up for my bad behavior, I'm going to address each and every one of your reviews (which hates, but whatev's).
Oneta Astobi: Well hello there! Welcome to the fandom! We have donuts.
Commandante Theresa: You know I love your work, but now that I know you love Lady Nigella and Lord Anderson, I love them that much more. Let us partake of some tea.
Pinkbonesforever: You should just be afraid period. There are so many things out there that could kill you at any moment. Like flying champagne corks and giant squids and global warming and oh god, the killer is right behind you! Heh, no, I just kid. Don't worry about Killian and Emma. Not even death can keep them apart. No promises on it not trying though.
4getfulimaginator: I love getting reviews and messages from you, and I'm so happy to see your profile is still up (woot woot!). I didn't want this story to be dark in spite of the dark subject matter. I wanted to write a happy ghost story, if such a thing exists. Something fun and flighty. I thought I was the only one with a story like this, but I saw that there's a 'Ghost and Mrs. Muir' story floating around here. I haven't read it, but I'm sure it's lovely. I'm trying to decide if I want to include some more occult aspects to the story, but I don't want this to become an episode of 'Supernatural', even though I love that show.
Guest: It's not nice to point out such things. Though I totally agree with you.
Amherst8: Liam is a joy to write, and since this is an AU, I don't have to acknowledge his death.
Jeepgirl1973: Thanks a bunch! Stay tuned for more!
Rational: I'm going to launch it an explanation, so just hang on a bit. Killian doesn't celebrate Christmas because his mother didn't, but also because (in this universe) Milah hated the holiday. She only liked the gifts and party aspect of it, which drove Killian insane and was one of the reasons they ended up divorcing. I couldn't touch on it comfortably in the chapter, so I had to do it here!
Well, that's all for now folks. Summer will be much longer and will focus on a love triangle.
See you soon!
