Emma
Emma Swan had a PhD. Emma Swan had 1265 followers on Instagram. Emma Swan had every line of The Princess Bride memorized.
But one thing Emma Swan did not have?
Electricity.
She flicked the switch again, in the vain hope she'd just imagined it the first time. Nothing happened. She tried the outlet by the toaster. Nothing. Nada.
Because of fucking course Emma would wake up on the first day of the year to find her new apartment shrouded in unending darkness. Because what landlord in their right mind actually picked up the phone at 7am on January 1st? Hell, judging by what she'd seen out her window over the last few hours, they were probably just getting started on all their Hogmanay festivities. Everyone else seemed to be.
Only, Emma wasn't going to accept defeat right away. Sure, cold Pop-Tarts were okay in a pinch, but it was still freezing out and she had a mighty need to crank up her space heater and put on a pot of coffee. She was very motivated.
It went to voicemail three times before someone finally picked up, the voice on the other end of the line irate and decidedly not sober.
"What yae want?" the voice barked.
Oh joy.
"Hi. I'm the new tenant in 2c? On Sciennes House Place?" She began, tentatively.
"Is it bloody well on fire?" came the unimpressed reply.
And to think, Emma was only three days into her twelve month lease. Clearly this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
"No, but it is dark." A meaningful pause. "Because the power is out. No electricity. None."
There was the sound of movement on the line, and a string of curses Emma only half understood. "And you filled the meter?"
For a moment, Emma wondered if she'd misheard. "Filled the… what?"
"The meter! The electricity meter, you daft girl. In the front cupboard, by the door. You've got to put pound coins in it, and turn the handle, or else the power will go out!"
Because that was super normal. And a little fact that might have easily been shared when she'd come to view the place. Or when she'd signed the lease. Or when she'd picked up the keys. Any of those times, really, would have been ideal.
"You mean I drop them in there?" Emma clarified. "Instead of being sent a bill?"
"Aye," grumbled the voice on the line. "Is that it then?"
God forbid they give their liver a whole five minutes reprieve. "Uh, I guess."
The line went dead without so much as a goodbye, and she resisted the urge to throw the phone in frustration. Instead she swallowed down her rage and focused on her new plan of attack.
Pound coins. Okay. She could do that. She backtracked to the kitchen by the dim light of her phone, to where she'd left her bag. Rummaging around a little she drew out her purse, sorting through the change she'd accumulated since Christmas. A grand total of £2.43.
After fighting her way through the extra sweaters she'd squirreled away in the front closet, she eventually discovered the bulky black outline of the promised electricity meter. With baited breath, she dropped in her first coin, letting it fall into the machine with a clatter. Then, she reached out and turned the crank. At last it clicked into place, and the room behind her lit up.
But her celebratory whoop was cut short when she caught sight of the actual meter reading by the newly returned light from the hallway. The needle had barely budged above zero. She was going to need a lot more coins. And soon.
It was still dark out when she hit the pavement, but Emma was far from the only one out and about. On the contrary, the streets still teemed with late night revellers who hadn't quite made it home yet. They traveled in packs. The giggling women in teetering heels, skirts too short for the weather. The men shouting slurred obscenities, trailed by the sound of glass bottles breaking against concrete. The all-night crowd, in all of their glory.
Emma hugged her jacket tighter around her, nuzzling her face further into her scarf. Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact.
"Nice night, darling?" One called out, but she pretended not to hear him, increasing her stride.
Only one more block. She could make it.
A slight figure stood sheltered in a doorway ahead of her, ragged and hungry-looking. "Spare any change, Miss?"
That was something that had honestly surprised her over the last few months. It wasn't just that Edinburgh seemed to have a proportionally high number of rough sleepers for its size. Or that they were strategically placed at all major thoroughfares, empty Costa Coffee cup at the ready. It was that they always seemed to be unfailing polite, no matter the hour or weather.
The irony of being asked for change at this very moment? She shot the girl an apologetic glance and kept walking, making a promise to herself she'd get the girl a sandwich or something on her way back.
But as she came up to the 24 hour convenience store on the corner, she noticed the windows weren't emitting their usual greenish fluorescent glow. In fact, they were dark, the doorway shuttered. There was a sign taped to the window with a note scrawled in black Sharpie.
Closed for the bank holiday. Happy Hogmanay!
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath, swallowing down the litany of curses that were on the tip of her tongue. Defeated, she jammed her hands back into the pockets of her jacket, turning back in the direction of her apartment.
"Any change for a cup o' tea?" she heard the homeless girl up ahead call to a passing couple. To her surprise, the guy stopped, the tell-tale clatter of coins as he dropped them into the cup.
Emma watched on, an idea forming. She waited for the couple to pass before she stopped before the girl, a ten pound note clutched in her hand.
"Hi. You wouldn't happen to have any pound coins, would you?"
She wouldn't say it was a mistake; what she'd tentatively titled: The Scottish Experiment. After all, there were pros and cons with living any place.
Pro. The chances of her running into her ex in the wine aisle at Sainsbury's were practically nil.
Pro. Her Instagram game was on point. Her feed had become an embarrassment of crags, cobblestones and castles, and she derived a certain amount of pleasure from the swoony emojis left in the comments.
Pro. Despite all the horror stories she'd heard about the Scottish weather, it was still a good twenty degrees warmer most days than it would have been back in Storybrooke.
And Pro. Her friends from home were only a Skype date away.
She heard them before she saw them. The excited squeal of two liquored up girlfriends enamored by the marvels of modern technology. And then her Skype window flickered to life and she saw them too. Mary Margaret and Ruby, squashed together on Ruby's tiny blue sofa, both fighting to get their faces into the frame.
"Emma!" Ruby shouted, with the uncontrolled glee of the truly intoxicated. "I miss youuuu!"
Emma looked at her clock, and frowned. "Uh, it's 7pm there, right? Did someone get an early start on happy hour?"
Instead of answering, Ruby grabbed a wine glass from out of the frame and took a big gulp, leaving the floor open for Mary Margaret.
"Victor got a job offer from Storybrooke General," she explained, with a smile. "We've been celebrating." Since noon, it seemed like. Her cheeks too were a little on the rosy side, but at least she had her volume under control.
"Hell yeah, we have!" came Ruby's exuberant reply.
"Oh," said Emma, scrambling for the right response. "That great!"
"And now he can give up that apartment in Portland and move in here!"
"Wow. Ruby, that's…" Out of character. "...a huge step."
"I know!" Ruby agreed, settling back down on the couch. "But I'm really fucking happy, you know?"
She looked it, too, her grin stretching from ear to ear. And though Emma might've recently stood on a rooftop at 2 am with a bottle of whisky and declared herself an enemy of love, she couldn't deny Ruby's sheer joy was touching.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Emma admitted. "You guys spent, what? The better part of ten years circling around each other? But I'm really happy for you."
She held a hand up to the screen, smiling when Ruby did the same. Then Mary Margaret let out a drunken giggle, and placed her hand over Ruby's and Emma heart broke a little at the schmaltz of it all.
"Speaking of Victor," she said, removing her hand, "shouldn't you guys be umm… celebrating together?" she asked.
"We will, later," Ruby said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "First I wanted to talk to you! How are you? How's Scotland? How're the Scottish guys?" The last one was accompanied with a salacious waggle of her perfectly tinted eyebrows.
"It's great. Scotland's great! Haven't you seen my Instagram?"
"I loved that one of the castle!" Mary Margaret piped up. "With the mist and everything?" She let out a cry of frustration, burying her head momentarily into her hands. "God, I'm so jealous of you! Please tell me you're having a good time."
"Sure I am. I mean, I've been a little busy getting the new apartment set up and everything, but yeah, it's great."
"And the Scottish guys?" Ruby cut in, not be ignored.
"Honestly? I haven't met that many yet. Not unless you count my students, which err… gross, or my boss, which umm… no. But I'm sure there are lots of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner."
Con. There were not a lot of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner. Because Jamie Fraser was fictional. Tragically.
"And friends?" Mary Margaret prompted, preventing Emma from delving headfirst into any Highlander fantasies.
"Oh, um… I'm working on it. Some people in my department are really nice."
Con. Emma's introduction to the history department had been lackluster, bordering on negligent. It seemed to be populated almost exclusively by hungover grad students and career academics decades her senior, and they'd welcomed her into their midst with about as much enthusiasm as they would the guy emptying the trash bins.
"It's a work in progress," she continued. "But it's not like college, right? Where you just so happen to land the world's clingiest roommate, and she bullies you into being her best friend?"
Mary Margaret shot her a warm smile at the memory. "You were a tough nut to crack. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fine."
Emma wasn't so confident. A childhood in the system and abandonment issues aplenty didn't exactly leave you with stellar social skills. In Emma's experience, trust had to be earned. And earned. And earned. Fortunately, Mary Margaret and her merry band of well-adjusted hangers on had always been up to the challenge.
Con. They weren't around anymore. And that was entirely Emma's fault.
Sure, it was a cliche. An American going all the way to Scotland just to sit in a fucking Starbucks. But in Emma's defense, an epic view of the castle through the picture windows did help. It was the kind of view that was worth supporting a tax-dodging multinational conglomerate for. That and the independent around the corner was full.
She might have preferred to drink her coffee and answer student emails in the comfort of her own office, but being the new kid on the block, she was still stuck sharing with an archaeology professor from Leeds, and he had office hours.
Still, she felt she'd made the best of a bad situation. She had a warm beverage and the best view in the house. Hell, it would have been perfect if it wasn't for the fact she was pretty certain the guy in the corner was staring at her. Not at his phone, sitting abandoned on the table in front of him. Not the morning edition of The Scotsman clutched in his hands. Not even the million dollar view behind her. Just her.
After ten minutes of it, Emma had had enough, shutting her laptop lid and sliding out from behind her table to confront him.
"Do I know you?" she asked, her words barbed and poised for action.
"You're her, aren't you?" he said, excitedly.
"Who?" Emma asked, wondering if she'd been mistaken for someone important.
"Emma Swan?" he said, pointing down to where his newspaper lay open.
"How the fu-" But Emma never bothered finishing the question.
Because the answer was staring her right in the face, in the guise of a full-page color advertisement.
It was a picture of her. She recognized it immediately as one August had taken last summer, at her farewell party. It was one of those rare photos, that somehow managed to tow the line between candid and flattering, without showing how drunk she'd really been. She liked that picture. She'd made it her fucking Facebook profile picture.
She blinked, but the image didn't shift. It just sat there, seared onto her retinas, along with the words that had been emblazoned across her face in glaring crimson:
#FindEmmaSwanAFriend
Oh, fuck.
No one saw it, Emma repeated under her breath, as she navigated the halls, avoiding eye contact. No one saw it. You're being paranoid. Nobody actually reads the newspaper anymore.
Only, someone had. Or a bunch of 18 year old someones, most likely, because when Emma returned to her creaky old office on the third floor it was to find the Archaeology professor gone, the door jimmied open, and her colleagues gathered in an indiscreet circle in the hallway, sniggering.
She pushed past them, not bothering to offer up any words of apology. They had it coming. Then, steeling herself for a moment, she stepped into the open doorway to survey the devastation.
It was her. Or more accurately, her face. Everywhere. On everything. Someone had gone to the trouble of cutting out five hundred copies of that fucking ad, and plastered it all over every available surface on her half of the room. Her desk. Her filing cabinets. Her bookshelf. Her fucking coat rack. Not even the light fixtures had been spared.
Someone was going to die, and Emma knew exactly who she was going to kill first.
"You're dead to me."
Emma had always found it helpful to begin with a statement of intent.
"Ohhh, so you saw it then? Do you like it?!" Ruby asked, excitedly.
"What the fuck have you done?!"
The sheer venom of her delivery must have tipped her off to Emma's general mood, because Ruby's next words were considerably more measured.
"Surprise?"
"Do you have any idea what you just did?!"
"Helped you? Look, I know it's a little…"
"INSANE?!"
"I was going to say obvious, but okay."
"How the hell did you even afford that? A full page is like…" Emma wasn't exactly up on The Scotsman's advertising rates, but she was sure it was hardly comparable to the likes of the Storybrooke Mirror.
"Oh, we all chipped in," Ruby supplied breezily.
"We all? You mean, more people than just you were privy to this insane plan and DIDN'T STOP YOU?!"
"And their advertising guy knocked a bit off the price," Ruby admitted, ignoring Emma's last question entirely. "I mean, I know I'm with Victor and everything, but his accent, wow. I have no idea how you stand it every day. I mean, he was only talking about pixels or something and already half wanted to take my clothes-"
Emma ended the call before she had to hear any more.
It didn't blow over.
By day's end she was a trending topic on Twitter, her phone blowing up with messages.
#FindEmmaSwanAFriend had gone viral.
Helped along, no doubt, by the social media savvy students who'd defaced her office. Or maybe the ones who interrupted the middle of her afternoon seminar on Jim Crow laws with a riotous rendition of Why Can't We Be Friends? on motherfucking rollerskates.
Fucking theatre students.
That one had seen her raked over the coals by her head of department, after which followed a terse lecture on professionalism, and setting an example. And she could hardly miss the highlighted relevant sections of the Policy on Employee Use of Social Media tacked to her office door the following morning.
So... her boss thought she was an attention-whore.
To make matters worse, there was website that had been set up to accompany the ad. Emma sat up until 3am watching the hit counter tick over with growing agitation. Nearly a quarter of a million hits. She didn't even dare to check the inbox of the accompanying email account.
She was officially a national laughing stock.
Perhaps she should just call it. The Scottish Experiment, such as it was, had been a mistake. A cataclysmically huge mistake.
Killian
Somewhere nearby, a child was screaming.
That was the first thing Killian Jones registered upon waking. The second was the low moan of his bedmate, as she burrowed deeper into the cocoon of blankets beside him.
"Make it stop," came the muffled whine from underneath the duvet, New Zealand accent unmistakable.
The third: he'd slipped up and taken Tink home again.
Bloody hell.
He sat up with a start, the fourth revelation of the morning exploding with sudden painful clarity behind his eyelids. The vodka had been a mistake. A grave, grave mistake.
Careful not to jostle Tink as she lay with a pillow over her head, drowning out the worst of the screams, he searched his floor for his prosthesis. There was no sign, but he did turn up last night's jeans. They too, were a little worse for wear, a sizable rip in one knee that definitely hadn't been there before, but he slipped them on anyway, his efforts made clumsy by his lack of prosthetic. His shirt proved somewhat harder to locate, eventually discovered in a suspiciously sticky state on his bathroom floor. He chose to forego the shirt.
"Back in a moment, lass," he whispered to the form under the covers.
"You need to move out," was the gruff reply, as she rolled over onto her side.
No arguments there.
Then, with a sigh, Killian unlocked the door and padded out into the hallway, in the direction of the shrieking.
Lachlan, more commonly referred to as Lachie the Devilchild, or the Lachie Ness Monster, was doing what he did best, sitting up is his custom-built racing car bed in a puddle of his own urine, screaming blue bloody murder.
"Hey, hey, lad. It's alright now," Killian said, in what might pass for a soothing tone. At the sound of his voice, the caterwauling ceased at once, as the boy turned to look at him with giant blue eyes, thick with tears.
"Uncle Killian," the boy sobbed, tiny fists clutching at his sodden pyjama pants. "I had an accident."
Lachie, aged four, was Killian's least favourite nephew. Some people liked to pretend they loved all their family members equally, but those people had probably not taken night terrors into account. There was plenty of time for the boy to rise in the rankings when he was older.
Killian crouched down low beside the bed, and placed a consolatory hand on the boy's shoulder. His eyes were watering from the smell, but he forced a smile. "Aye, lad. You did. But it's alright, happens to the best of us. How about we get you all cleaned up then, and let your parents sleep, eh?"
The boy obediently held his arms out for Killian to lift him out of his plywood prison, but before he could get a hold of him, one of the parents in question rounded the doorway, looking harassed. Liam. All six feet of him, swathed in fetching tartan pyjamas and a sour expression. The state of his flannel shirt, the buttons done up all wrong, hinted at what might have kept him.
He stopped dead when he saw Killian standing there, turning his scowl into a curt, "Morning," before stepping forward to tend his son.
"Another nightmare?" Liam asked the boy in a softer tone, leaning over to gather him in his arms.
The boy nodded as he clung to his father, stricken. "You were gone, and Mummy was gone, and Callum was gone, and Uncle Killian was gone. You all left me all alone and I couldn't find-" his little voice cracked, a fresh flood of tears falling from his eyes.
"'Hey now," Liam crooned, rubbing soothing circles into the boy's back. "It's alright. Daddy's here now. And no one is ever leaving you alone, got it?"
Lachie didn't answer, just tightened his grip, as his father lifted him out of bed with an exaggerated groan. "Christ, you're even heavier than you were yesterday. At this rate, you'll be fully grown in a couple of weeks."
The boy lifted his face away from where he was cradled against his father's chest to fix him with an admonishing look. "Don' be silly, Daddy,' he chided, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt. "I'm still a boy!"
"Are you sure?" Liam asked as he set him down, peering down at his youngest son with teasing eyes.
"Yes!" The boy shouted, a playful shove to his father's shoulder. "Tell him, Uncle Killian!"
Liam turned, as if surprised to see Killian still standing there, hungover and shirtless. "Out gallivanting, again?" The tone was playful, but the look accusatory. But before he could raise a word in his own defence, a second parent crossed the threshold, rendering them all mute.
Elsa had that effect on people. Even sleep rumpled as she was, with purple bags under her eyes and the oversized grey T-shirt she wore as a nightie frayed and stretched to her knees, she was striking. And just like the descendant of lesser Scandinavian royalty she was rumoured to be, she surveyed the scene in front of her with a kind of calm indifference. But as her gaze fell at last on her youngest son the facade cracked somewhat, a tender smile curving her lips.
"Mummy!" Lachie cried.
He made a lunge for her, but Liam scooped him up out of mid air. "Not so fast, little monster. How about we get you into a bath first, eh? Then you can cuddle your Mummy as much as you want."
The lad kicked up a fuss, but Liam held fast, threats to withhold pancakes whispered into the boy's ear until he settled quietly in his arms. "Good little monster. Now, bath time!" Liam said, making for the door.
Elsa shot her husband a grateful glance as the two of them made their exit, disappearing down the hall. Only once they were out of earshot did she sag a little, letting her exhaustion show. "Thanks, Killian. Sorry, we were-"
"Lalalalala," Killian said, his fingers in his ears. "I really don't require details."
She smiled at that, going over to strip the bed, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. "Just a thank you, then."
"It's no bother."
She shot him a skeptical look.
"Alright, so he's the child of Satan," Killian relented with a smile. "But he does have your bone structure, so all hope is not lost. And it's the least I can do. Since, you know…" He waved his stump awkwardly in the air between them.
"Nonsense," said Elsa, rising to her full height with a mess of stinking bedsheets clutched in her arms. "You know we love having you here."
"Even Liam?" Killian asked wryly.
"Yes," Elsa smiled warmly, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek as she passed. "Especially Liam. No matter what he says."
"He says plenty," Killian muttered under his breath.
Elsa turned towards him in the doorway with a frown. "It's hard for him, I think. He's so used to playing the father, he forgets you don't need one anymore. But let me worry about that." There was a sudden flash of mischief in her eyes. "And you can worry about the girl you left in your room."
So much for stealth.
"Should I set a place for this one?" she asked, slyly. "I'm making chocolate pancakes."
"Err... she's gluten intolerant," Killian mumbled, brushing past her out into the hallway.
"Maybe one day you'll bring home a girl who you want to have pancakes with your family?" Elsa teased.
Killian gave her a tight smile. "Perhaps."
Or perhaps pigs might fly.
Barely two weeks into the New Year, and he'd already broken two resolutions. He'd gotten scuttered on a weeknight and he'd fallen into Tinker Bell's orbit again. In fact, one had begotten the other, like a series of sinister dominoes.
He'd planned on having an early night. Just one beer. Out long enough he wouldn't be dragged into the entire bath-bed-story rigmarole when he arrived home, but not late enough to fall in with the Antipodean crowd when they shuffled in after 9.
Clearly, there had been a miscalculation somewhere along the way.
One Killian was now atoning for as he walked briskly along Princes Street, that rare Scottish winter sun peeking out from behind the gothic spire of the Scott Monument, every golden gleam of light like a stab wound to the head.
Coffee might save him. Elsa's pancakes certainly hadn't done the trick, and nor had Liam's disapproving glare from the head of the table, the self-righteous bastard. Coffee was his last hope.
Energised by that thought, Killian bound up the stairs to the first floor cafe with the most enthusiasm he'd displayed all morning, nearly crashing headlong into a blonde in a red leather jacket standing at the top of the stairs.
"Apologies, lass," he said, reaching out to grip the banister with his good hand. "But if you'd be so kind as to move out of the way…"
She turned around slowly, an attractive face twisted into something pissed off and clearly caffeine deprived. "No, because this is where the line ends," she snapped, clearly at her wit's end. "And if you think I'm letting you cut ahead of me-" she trailed off, the threat implied. American, he realised after a moment. It certainly explained a lot.
It was only as Killian gave her a brief once-over, that he noticed that he too, was under inspection. Something that might have been cause to smirk, if he hadn't caught the exact moment she clocked the prosthetic peeking out from under his left sleeve, her eyes growing infinitesimally larger, her cheeks reddening slightly.
"I uh… I…didn't mean..."
"Nevermind, love," he said, stuffing the offending limb into the pocket of his jacket. "Been waiting long?"
He craned his neck, surveying the line in front of them as the doors to the cafe swung open, a pair of teenagers emerging clutching steaming to-go cups.
"Fifteen minutes, so far."
And she was still the last one in line. Damn it.
He consulted his watch. A quarter of an hour until the staff meeting, and he still had to traverse half of Princes Street in that time. He wasn't going to make it. But before he could throw in the towel, the lass in front of him beat him to it.
"Fuck this!" she declared, hands raising her hands in defeat. "I'm out. Starbucks it is."
She motioned for him to take her place as she passed him, and he watched her go, half amused, half wishing he could follow her lead. Until he realised his staff meeting wouldn't keep until after waiting in yet another queue. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned and fled down the stairwell after her, and out onto the street.
The instant at work would have to suffice.
Work was with Saorsa, Scotland's premier monthly magazine. Though owed by a Swede, edited by an Englishman, and staffed by a random assortment of European nationals as it was, also about as authentically Scottish as the cheap plastic tat they hawked to tourists along the Royal Mile.
Their poky little offices sat on Rutland Square in the West End, the rooms still furnished with the same fussy Victorian wallpaper they'd sported back before they'd been converted into offices. The chandelier from some old dame's parlour still hung over the conference table around which Killian's colleagues sat in readiness, as he stepped through the door with his mug of Nescafe.
"Nice of you to join us," Liam drawled, from where he sat at the head of the table, rolling a stress ball between his fingers.
All those who naturally assumed that working under the direction of one's immediate family might be some kind of advantage, had clearly never worked under Liam Jones.
Killian settled for raising his mug in his brother's direction in a mocking salute, before taking his vacant seat.
"Alright," said Liam at last, setting down the stress ball and rubbing his hands together. "We've got a week until we go to print, let me to see where you're all at. Cindy?"
It was the usual tosh.
Most of Saorsa's subscribers were pensioners, or expats living abroad. They didn't want hard hitting current affairs, or in-depth exposés. A monthly magazine was hardly the place anyway, in the age of the 24 hour news cycle. What they really wanted was to read about the Scotland that still lived inside their rose-tinted imaginations. Where the Bay City Rollers were still relevant and the only crime came from the fevered imaginings of best-selling local authors, profiled on page 9.
So if Killian happened to tune out for the majority of a meeting detailing puff pieces on SNP politicians and an exhaustive review of the King's Theatre Pantomime, it wasn't due to any particular malice on his part. He was just bored to tears.
But perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised when Liam held him back after the meeting, as if he were some unruly schoolboy.
"You could at least pretend to be interested," Liam admonished, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "The last thing I need is everyone thinking I'm playing favourites."
Little chance of that.
"If you have a problem with my copy-" Killian began, but Liam cut him off.
"Your know damn well your copy isn't the problem, Killian. It's your attitude! Can you honestly tell me you were fully engaged just now? Giving your colleagues the respect and attention they deserve?"
Knowing he didn't really expect an answer, Killian settled for a shrug.
"Look, I know you were out last night-"
"Oh, come off it!" Killian cut in. "Don't give me that sanctimonious bullshit. If I'm any worse for wear this morning, it's more down to the screechings of your little hellion than any gallivanting I might have done!"
Liam was silent, but Killian still caught it, the sight of that familiar vein throbbing in his brother's forehead as he swallowed back the words they both knew he truly wished to say.
So why don't you just leave then?
But that was the thing about having a fuck up, cripple for a brother. You never actually vocalised such thoughts, lest everyone think you're some kind of monster.
"I'm sorry, I…" Liam began.
"Save it for the motivational memo," Killian responded drily, rising to his feet. "I've still got to hammer down a meeting with Ruth Davidson's chief of staff. Unless there's anything else?"
He almost made it outside before Liam spoke again. "Oh! I forgot to mention. I'd like you to start brainstorming ideas for the next Slice of Life. It's yours now."
Killian turned abruptly in the doorway.
"The Slice of Life column? You mean the one where they interview postmen and the people who collect the bins? Read exclusively by little old ladies and people lining their litter boxes? I don't bloody think so! What about Ian?"
Liam frowned. "He retired at Christmas. We had a going away party for him? For chrissakes, Killian, you signed the bloody card!"
Ah. So that's what that had all been about. Now he thought about it, Ian's wife was maybe the wrong side of fifty to be welcoming a new baby.
"Of course," Killian blustered, "Crieff, wasn't it? To raise alpacas?"
"Kelso," Liam sighed in a long-suffering way. "And it was llamas."
"Aren't they the same thing?"
Killian only just managed to duck the stress ball aimed at his head. "Get out!" his brother ordered. "And learn how to use Wikipedia!"
The Slice of Life column. Bloody hell. Was there no end to the day's indignities?
The previous incarnation had simply been an excuse for Ian McKenzie to sit in his local on the magazine's dime, chatting up barflies under the guise of "celebrating the everyman." His interviews were usually conducted about four pints in, and it showed, the questions about as shallow as a frying pan.
Favourite films. Secret recipes. Thoughts on Independence. Truly banal details from the most mundane people alive.
If Liam thought Killian was up for continuing this tradition of celebrating mediocrity, then he was sorely mistaken. Killian may have cut a few corners in his time, but a man still had to have his pride.
Only, he had no real idea where to begin.
It was a dilemma he puzzled over during the quieter moments. After the boys had gone to bed, and he stayed up late reading Patrick O'Brian novels. As he chowed down on his midday panini to the soundtrack of Rai Uno at his favourite Italian place on Leith Walk.
He even took to avoiding Liam in case he asked him about it, none too easy a task considering he lived and worked with the man. And the very reason he came to be sitting in the Cambridge Bar Friday evening, downing a few ales with the lads when Will gave a low whistle, holding up his copy of The Scotsman so the rest of them could see.
It was hardly risque. A snapshot of a blonde woman caught in a candid party moment, head thrown back in laughter. Killian had staged enough "candid" shots in his time to know this was the genuine article, but that wasn't the interesting part. Nor was the fact that she was clearly gorgeous. Rather it was hashtag that had been printed over the photograph, striking in red.
#FindEmmaSwanAFriend
"Imagine a girl like, having trouble befriending anyone," Will snickered. "They'd be lining up around the bloody block."
Robin and John hummed half-heartedly, eyes already drawn back to the screen in the corner, but Killian was inclined to agree. The lass was rather pretty. And if he wasn't mistaken, just the tiniest bit familiar.
"Hang on," he said, pulling the paper towards him. "I think I've met her."
"One of your women?" Robin cajoled. "You have had a thing for the blondes lately."
"That wasn't code for I've slept with her," Killian snapped, causing Robin to dive back into his ale, chastened. "I think I've actually met her."
But where? He doubted he'd seen her up at Holyrood, whilst chasing after Ruth Davidson. She didn't look like a Tory. Then, in a flash of red it came to him. The lass at the coffee shop. The one on the stairs. The American. He knew she'd looked familiar. And judging by this, she was just as entertaining when she wasn't standing in coffee queues.
Very entertaining, even. Entertaining enough to appeal to little old ladies and the Scottish diaspora, perhaps?
There was only one way to find out. The seed had been planted. All Killian needed to do now was find this Emma Swan.
It took four days of dodging Liam's calls and haunting every coffee shop in central Edinburgh before he got lucky. But fortunately for Killian, this American's caffeine addiction had finally overridden her sense of self-preservation.
She'd done her best to fly under the radar, he had to give her that. Squirrelled away in a corner booth as she was, woollen hat pulled down low to cover that trademark blonde hair, thick black frames instead of contacts. He might not have recognised her at all, if it weren't for the jacket. Red leather, just as he remembered.
"Excuse me, lass. Do you have a moment?"
She didn't look too happy when she noticed him standing there. That too, was familiar. She was a bit of a spitfire by his recollection, and he was keen not to set her off too soon.
"I'm sorry," he said, laying on the graciousness. "We met the other day. Do you remember? On the stairs?"
He let his left sleeve fall a little, and the moment she caught sight of the prosthetic he knew she did. Only of course, it wasn't going to be quite that easy.
"So?" she replied shortly, eyes wandering back down to the tablet resting on the tabletop.
"I'm afraid I never got a chance to introduce myself. My name's Killian. Killian Jones."
"I really didn't ask, Killian Jones," she said, her tone deceptively sweet, even as she kept her gaze fixed on the tablet.
"I'm aware of that, lass. But I thought it might be best to even the playing field a little, seeing as I know your name."
That got her attention, her eyes snapping up to meet his. "Listen, buddy," she said, her voice low and vicious. "If you're here to make fun of me, or to hit me with some really bad pick-up line you've been saving, I'd really rather you just left."
"Been a rough couple of days, I take it?"
She shot him a long-suffering look. "You have no idea."
He was beginning to think he might.
"Alas, I'm not here to make fun. Or to make any overtures, though you are lovely. I am however, a member of the fourth estate..."
"And that's my cue," Emma declared, rising from her seat, and cutting short his prepared monologue. Instead she packed away her tablet and reached across to drain the last of her cup. "Have a nice life, Killian Jones," she said, patting him on the shoulder as she passed. "Follow me outside and you lose the other hand."
Some people might have taken Emma's reticence as off-putting, but Killian loved a challenge. Certainly, the threat of bodily harm had been a bit disquieting, but the lass was unlikely to follow through. Not before he laid out his pitch, anyway. And if she still wanted nothing to do with him after? Well, then he would jump off that bridge when he came to it.
She wasn't hard to find. Even though her social media had been carefully scrubbed of all incriminating details, such as place of work or contact details, a simple Google search turned up her name as the author of a number of scholarly articles under the broader scope of American History.
So Emma Swan possessed both brains and beauty. And what looked to be an unhealthy fixation with the life and times of John Jay, if he wasn't mistaken.
A short trawl through the staff directory of the University of Edinburgh turned up not only Emma's job description: Lecturer in American History, but also the location of her office, a contact email, and when she might be available for office hours. It was almost too easy.
He saw the moment she spotted him, leaning on the wall outside her office door as she arrived for the day, arms laden with reference books. He also caught the momentary flicker of panic, as she internally debated making a run for it. But it was just that, a flicker, before she sighed and kept walking.
"Killian Jones," she said flatly, balancing the books on her hip against the wall as she wrestled her keys from her jeans pocket.
"Emma Swan," he smiled. "How nice of you to remember me. I brought coffee."
She glanced down at the cup he was holding with wary eyes. "Are you a stalker?" she asked, pressing her key into the lock, and shoving the door open with her boot.
"No, I'm a journalist."
She snorted, placing her armful of books down on the nearest flat surface before turning back to him. "The difference being?"
Killian smirked. "I write about it after."
"Coffee?" he asked, holding out the cup for her to take.
For a moment she looked tempted, but her hand quickly fell back down to her side, fists clenched. "I don't accept drinks from strange men."
"Not even with cinnamon?" he asked, wiggling the cup a little in the air between them.
Emma's mouth opened, then closed. Then she reconsidered. "Do I want to know how you know that?"
"The barista. The one with the manbun? I showed him your picture and he remembered your order." He leaned over to set the cup down on her stack of books, in order to rifle through his jacket pocket. "This picture, in fact," he said, pulling out a copy of the advertisement that had started it all.
At the very sight of it, Emma seemed to shrink inwards, glancing left and right down the hallway for witnesses. Seeing none, she seized Killian by the wrist and pulled him over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind them.
"I..." he began, but she didn't let him finish, taking the cutting from him and screwing it up in her hands.
"What do you want?"
He grasped around for the right answer. "I... want to help."
"Help?" Emma gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah, sure. You just want to exploit one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. And let me tell you, that's saying something."
"I take it the ad wasn't your idea, then?"
Another bark of harsh laughter. "Not so much. My friends back home. They mean well, but they're..." By the way her words trailed off into a frustrated groan, he believed he got the idea.
"Where's home?" he asked.
Which was apparently one innocent query too far, because Emma Swan's eyes narrowed, arms coming up to cross over her chest. "Oh, you're good, Killian Jones. But I am not for consumption. So if you think you're getting some story out of this..."
"Alright," said Killian, switching tack. "So you resent the whole ordeal. By that reaction in the hallway just now, I'm going to go out on a limb and say perhaps the whole thing caused some trouble here at work?"
Another snort, which clearly meant, yes.
And then he spotted it, out of the corner of his eye. It looked like... a face. Emma's face. Or a facsimile of it, looking down at him where it hung suspended from the ceiling. "Is that?"
Emma sighed. "A prank. Couple of students broke in and covered the place. Or, my half, at least," she said, indicating the sparser left hand side of the room. "Not quite as bad as the rollerskating flashmob to Why Can't We Be Friends? that burst into the middle of my afternoon seminar..."
Killian hadn't meant to laugh. He really, really tried not to. But honestly? Roller skates and a War anthem? The youth of today were ingenious.
"I'm sorry, lass," he said, wiping away the tears that had gathered in his eyes. By her expression, he could tell she was long past looking at the funny side. And he felt compelled to make it up to her. "Here," he offered, dragging over a chair so that he could fetch down the one thing in the room that was more offensive than himself. It didn't come unstuck easily, a slice of white paint chipping off with the tape, but the ceiling was, at least, clear. He placed the square of paper into her hand.
For a moment, she just let it sit there. And then she closed her fist around it, pressing it into a ball.
"I can help you control the narrative," Killian offered, deciding he might as well start his pitch before she threw him out.
"Is that right?" Emma asked with more than a little sarcasm, throwing the paper into the bin by her desk.
"You want people to know you're not the one behind #FindEmmaSwanAFriend? That you aren't just another bloodsucking American out for her 15 minutes of fame? I can help with that. And I could, perhaps, help with the... other thing."
"Other thing?"
"Friends, Emma. This whole nightmare scenario came about because you've found it difficult fitting in here, correct? I can help with that. Help you sort the responses you've gained from your website. Or perhaps, offer suggestions as to other methods you might try..."
To give credit where credit was due, she twigged immediately. "So you can write about, right?"
"Aye," Killian admitted, wryly. "That is... the general idea."
"No."
"You don't think think it's a tale worth telling? How many others are out there right now, otherwise successful adults, struggling to find their niche? It will resonate with people. Why else do you think the campaign was so successful?"
"No."
All in all, not quite the response he'd been hoping for. Time to bring out the big guns.
"I'll pay you!" he blurted out, wincing at how desperate he sounded.
But rather than dismissing him out of hand, as he expected, the lass instead looked thoughtful. "How much?"
And therein lay the problem. Saorsa was not exactly flush with cash these days. Magazines all over were folding, and they'd mostly weathered the storm by launching online and letting Scottish expats drive their subscription base. But was no expense account to speak of. So whatever he offered would be coming directly out of his own meagre salary. A good thing Elsa had refused to accept any rent money from him, he supposed.
But what to do? To go low, and hope for the best? Or to go high, and just accept the financial hardship?.
"£100 a month," he said at last. "For a year."
"Yeah, that's really not going to cover a year's worth of public humiliation, friend. Not even close."
Which was fair enough. But it was all he had to offer.
"And if I told you the magazine I write for, Saorsa, mostly caters to the elderly and expats? No one under 60 would dare admit to reading it. And I somehow don't think it's the opinions of Scotland's retirement community that has you most concerned. Or am I wrong?"
"You could just be saying that..." Emma reasoned.
"I could, but I'm not. Trust me, it's not the most glamorous place to work. But if you did this for me, it would go a long way towards getting my brother off my back."
"Your brother?"
"My editor," Killian clarified.
"Your editor is your brother?" Emma exclaimed. "Holy nepotism, Batman!"
He gave her a wry smile, holding up his prosthetic. "I prefer to think of it as affirmative action. It's awfully hard to pull a pint one handed."
"Please don't make me into that dick that says no to the one-handed guy," Emma pleaded.
"You could always not say no?" he posited, laying on the puppy dog eyes.
"I don't like it..." Emma began.
"Think of the money," Killian encouraged. "Think of the healthy social life you've have. Think of how I will take care of everything."
She still looked doubtful. Perhaps he'd come on too strong.
"Fine!" she snapped, finally snatching up the coffee cup he'd brought and bringing it to her lips. "I'll do it. But I swear, if this thing gets out of hand? I'm out. I am not signing on for a public crucifixion!"
"No crucifixions. Roger."
"And umm... out of interest, could I get that £100 in pound coins?"