A/N: When I first posted ch1, JRob64 graciously offered to beta for this story, even though it's such a chore for her :P To be quite frank, I don't think I would have kept up with this without her overwhelming encouragement and consistent badgering. She deserves so much more credit and praise than I can give. Thank you, Pacman.
PS - Did you catch my tiny Easter Egg (for lack of a better word?) Emma going to bed around 10pm is the same moment in time of Killian's 3am clock glance. Time difference is fun.
Also, my ADD is kicking my ass rn, so don't be afraid to poke me or something to really get me posting! I need to get this caught up to ao3 (I'm about to post ch6 there). Shame on me.
Syncing Up
Fucking license plates! How could she have been so stupid to forget about the license plates?!
Four days. Four fucking days she had wasted, trying to figure out who the blond woman was. The first two days were merely frustrating, internet stalking Jonah Hillsbury from the comfort of her own home - if she could be so bold in that assessment - with her ancient laptop and crappy internet, systematically going through all the ways he could have met her organically. Through work, business meetings, lunch spots. Going so far as to look into his college and high school alumni.
Not to mention social media. Assclown was too careful for that bullshit, though, and Emma walked away with zilch.
The woman was likely once a booty call from an app that Emma had zero access to, turned into a fling, then a lover, and now a secret girlfriend.
Emma wasn't sure if she wanted to bang her head on the stearing wheel, scream, or maybe both? Both was good. It felt like the last four days lasted an entire month.
On the third day, Emma started following Jonah Hillsbury again, knowing he'd eventually lead her to another hotel and Emma figured she could follow the mistress, get a work or home address or something.
But Jonah Hillsbury didn't lead her to a hotel that day. No, that was saved for day four, and it wasn't until an hour after the woman in question arrived that Emma finally spotted the license plate, looking at it like it was the first time she had ever seen one, proceeding to laugh maniacally like a crazy person when she realized -
It was so simple. And obvious. Anyone who had ever seen a crime show on tv could have told her - but no. Emma didn't have people to remind her of shit like that, even when she had mountains of photos of the plates - most of which would get deleted - that she hadn't even thought about looking for when trying to discover the woman's identity.
She didn't even need to stalk or surveil him again. She could have looked through the pictures right after getting the money shot, right from home. No internet required! Then she would have had this case wrapped up with a bow and onto the next by now. Knowing that was the worst part.
No. No, the worst part was her brain. Instead of Stabby and almost dying, she was back to thinking about Graham as she usually did during her cases of infidelity. To top it off, something about the combination of Graham and the knife-incident had made Emma's skin crawl with the desperate need to run. Anywhere but here.
Her name was Kira Cross. Emma double checked with social media. This was her. The mistress had a name. And Emma had her home address. Not to mention access to her very open-to-the-public profile.
The woman had a child at home. A preschooler from the looks of it. Emma groaned at that. Children complicated everything.
Emma rubbed her temples for a split second, shifting in the tight space of her bug, trying to decide on a course of action. She could go to the husband, now. Double her pay. Ensure he could get out if he wanted to by offering the file containing the recording, the photos. and the timeline of their affair.
He'd need it if he was going to file for divorce.
Emma wasn't sure she cared what she would do, she just knew she had to move. Which led her to adding the Cross residence to the map on her phone, taking one last moment to facepalm herself before checking for oncoming traffic and pulling out of her parking spot.
If nothing else, Emma could make up a story, talk to the husband, gather information on Kira Cross to add to Yolanda Hillsbury's file. The more details she gathered, the stronger the case, the bigger the settlement. And Emma's contract included a percentage of profit from the divorce settlement.
Her apartment really was way too shabby for her income, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to upgrade. Maybe it was her way of punishing herself. She was far too good at squeezing money out of ruining other people's lives.
A fact she was not proud of.
Which reminded Emma of her choice to tell Mr. Cross or not. She was already headed there, had most of the packet complete, a copy of the file sitting there in the passenger seat. She had a back up in her apartment, and another somewhere on the cloud - wherever that was.
Seriously, what the hell was the cloud? It couldn't be just floating above her head, right? What if it was just little particles in the air? Did that mean people could breathe in data streams?
She snorted. Of course not. She also didn't care enough to google it.
The GPS led her 20 minutes outside of the city, to a very attractive house - even if it looked nearly identical to the ones on either side of it. Four in the afternoon on a Wednesday left the street fairly void of activity.
She parked, right in front of the house, tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess. She still wasn't sure yet if she'd offer the packet to Kira Cross's husband. Or charge him for it, which was the smart thing to do. She had been known to ignore the extra income because of the human factor. As in she was one, and had a heart entirely too big - which was why she needed such sturdy walls around it in the first place.
When faced with this decision, it always came back to the question: when she was with Graham, would she have wanted a stranger to approach her with that information?
It wasn't exactly the same situation. He really didn't owe her an explanation. So what, if he had an ongoing… intimate relationship with another woman? He wasn't her boyfriend. They never had the 'talk'. But when she found out, it made Emma feel like the other woman. It made her feel betrayed because she had outright asked if he was involved with anyone before they started dating.
Apparently, casual sex wasn't 'involved' enough to count. Six months later, she felt she could open up to him, and instead...
Would she have wanted to know sooner?
Want? Hell no. She'd really liked Graham. Need was a different story. The longer an affair goes on, the worse the faithful would feel. Graham made Emma feel bad. About herself. About not catching it, feeling like she'd been blind, manipulated, and used. Especially if she had allowed her heart to get involved. She couldn't help but wish someone had told her sooner. She could have easily used Graham as just a good lay, not getting her hopes up or feeling like a fool when it did come out that he had a casual thing on the side.
For the millionth time or so since getting the money shot, Emma checked drive times out of state, almost out of habit by now. Then the flight times to the west coast. And finally flights to places like Europe, Asia, and Australia.
This was a good thing. This was normal. For her, anyway. Thoughts of Graham always meant an overwhelming desire to flee, which meant she wasn't as hung up on what happened a month ago.
Progress.
Except she wasn't entirely sure she could talk herself down this time. It was worse now than it ever was before. It wasn't even this bad after everything Neal put her through. And he left her pregnant, with a baby, in prison.
Maybe she wasn't as 'over' the whole nightmare-induced existential crisis as she thought she was.
She wasn't sure what she'd do this time. Normally, after a case of the unfaithful - post Graham - she took a few days, locked herself in her apartment, mentally 'ran' to calm herself down. But this time? She was looking at actually using her passport. And she hadn't left the city in - was it two years, now?
She cringed, looking at the door of the house, then at the painted numbers marking it as 512 - It was a kindness, in some twisted way, to tell the spouse. Not that Mr. Cross would agree.
Swallowing hard, she opened the car door. One way or another, she was about to find out exactly what Mr. Cross thought.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
"Killian!" Unexpecting the high-pitched female squeal of her voice at 9pm in the only pub of his tiny town, Killian nearly fell from his stool at the bar top as he swiveled around to get a good look at the disembodied voice.
He really should have known it would be Tink. There were so few women who knew him well enough, anymore anyway, to squeak out his voice in some semblance of excitement like she just did, the possibility of it being anyone else just seemed wrong.
Honestly, he was hoping to find Will here and recruit the man to sit with him, but he could do worse than Tink as a pub mate.
Nodding to her, he asked the age old greeting. "What's the craic?"
She looked at him strangely for a moment, realization dawning in her large eyes. He didn't bother wondering. "Just volunteering around town." She bit her lip before shuffling forward, her earlier excitement at seeing him obviously tampered now.
He unconsciously raised an eyebrow, nodding to the seat next to him. She flashed a grin before taking it, tapping her fingers nervously on the bar top. Something was amiss with her, though he couldn't bring himself to care at this present moment.
"I haven't seen you around in a while." She finally said.
Killian shrugged. He really didn't need - or want - to add anything to the conversation at that point. Besides, what would he even say that she didn't already know? It had all been said before. She'd talked, he'd listened, sometimes telling her he was just fine staying home, away from town and eventually (in duress) admitting the truth of the matter. He had been recovering from a loss, which reopened old wounds, and people made it worse more often than not.
But he had spent the majority of the last three days between the pub and the docks, spending as little time home as possible. He wondered how he'd managed not to cross paths with Tink before now in a town this small.
Being home just reminded him of his mother anymore, and how disappointed in him that she'd be - he hadn't lived up to his potential. He knew it. Liam, too, would be saddened by his limited existence. He hadn't even taken on any new projects or clients since he finished with LogiCor, which was unusual for him, though he had volunteered to assist in the reconstruction of the old bridge. More manual labor. He felt it would do his soul some good. It didn't hurt that it would also help him pass the time, perhaps giving him something to focus on besides his own melancholy thoughts.
Until Tink arrived, he had been blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Now, though, the signs, glitter, streamers, lights, posters, kiosks, special menus, and finally, the wedding announcements pasted to every available surface, all started to attack his senses in the most utterly ridiculous way.
Groaning, his wide eyes darting around, he pulled out his phone to check the calendar.
"Something the matter?" She asked him softly. Oh, bleedin' woman already knew.
Second week of April, like clockwork, the blasted féile an ghrá - otherwise known as the most ridiculous local festival that rivaled St. Valentine's Day, and somehow only existed in his hometown (he checked) where the locals went sideways over the nauseating event.
The Festival of Love.
"I just realized how much I've had to drink." He lied smoothly while attempting a smile, but knew it fell short by her expression. She knew what just went on with him. Everyone knew. He complained about the holiday every year, he wasn't shy about it, but one expression crossed her face that he wasn't expecting.
Disappointment.
He wasn't sure he could handle that, so he paid his tab, nodded his farewell as politely as possible, and exited the pub before she had time to stop him - to a street that looked like it threw up romance. And sales gimmicks. It was almost a shame they had so little tourism, they'd do it so well if they only found a way to market this.
Not that he was volunteering his services. Sure, he'd hate for his little haven to go bankrupt one day. Though it wasn't really his business if he was moving - but if he did move, perhaps he'd create the town a webpage and link it to several social media pages, enlisting someone to run them in his absence - He sighed, shaking his head. Clearly a single pint was not enough to drown out his thoughts.
Carding his fingers through his hair in aggravation at just being here during this week, he moved faster, uphill naturally, to his car. He really needed to step up his speed if he was going to escape the town and this week, unscathed.
They didn't even do this festival for the tourists, since they got so few of them. It was mainly for the locals, though some out of towners did visit during the holiday, most native to Ireland who had grown up with the stories of féile an ghrá and didn't actually believe it existed, but some came here as some kind of wedding destination - which was laughable - in the traditional Irish style as was acceptable during the holiday. Some even came to find their bride or groom.
It was ridiculous. To be paired up and married to a perfect stranger. Who would do such a -
Well, why not? Would that really be so bad? Something to be said for the matches made here, more couples continued the relationships happily than not. It was rare for a marriage during féile an ghrá to end via divorce, even the betrothals.
Now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure any of the marriages ended. Or perhaps the powers that be kept those statistics locked up tight.
It was nothing special to be married here. A simple handfast ceremony, held wherever a handful of people could comfortably stand in a group with half the townsfolk watching, heart eyes tearing up all while selling polaroid photos, custom t-shirts, and various other useless items - because gimmicks worked and money made the world go round.
He shook his head at the idea.
Of all the days to be in town, this was not one he would willingly choose. Soon, he'd be flocked by single women, most he'd known since he was a child, all wanting to shower him with attention, affection, and cleavage. Not that he really minded that last part. But after last year - when he gazed at what they were offering for a moment too long, and a father all but threatened to duel him if he didn't marry the girl like it was 1825 - he was no longer tempted to appreciate their assets.
The sooner he left town and got home, the better.
Except, for whatever reason, he smelled something achingly familiar, halting him in his footsteps. Something that almost smelled like home. And he couldn't place it. A lovely floral thing. He stopped moving, sniffing the air like a bloodhound and redirecting his movements to head in the general direction of the scent, across the street, back down the hill, trying to pinpoint the source.
With his luck, it was merely perfume - and his attention to whoever was wearing it would only encourage them to do whatever women did to garner a man's affection. Something he decidedly did not want.
But he couldn't shake the familiarity of the scent. Or the curiosity of where it was coming from. He had to know.
After several moments of wandering deeper into town, away from his car, he felt a pull almost, taking him into an alley with a brick wall that had been transformed into a photographic collage of past festivals. Curiously, the scent was growing stronger as he examined the images, hitting him full force when his eyes landed on one in particular.
He felt his feet melt into the ground when he caught sight of it - the one of his parents from years before he was born. He recognized it as the one during the weekend that they had met, in the very bar he'd just vacated.
The scent dawned on him. His mother, ever the green thumb, ever the lover of fresh flowers of every variety, always smelled of them. And no matter what, she had a similar smell consisting of Trom, Aiteann, Lus Mór, and most ardently, Feirdhris, with hints of Earth and sweat mixed through.
The scent surrounded him as he stood, transfixed at the old photo, for just a moment before the scent disappeared from him entirely. He felt he missed it instantly.
It almost felt like a hug, of sorts.
And the weight on his shoulders intensified. Spirit or beer-induced hallucination mattered not, he knew what this meant for him. He would have to partake in the festival this year. Or at the very least, he had to be in town. He couldn't risk going against the spirits, not in Ireland, not in his hometown.
Particularly since the spirit in question was likely his mum.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
She must have been driving in circles for the better part of an hour before she registered the sign for the airport. Why her subconscious decided that that was the first road sign for her to pay attention to, she had no idea, but seeing it - really seeing it - did something funny to her insides. Almost like a knot was loosening.
Jefferson Cross, Kira Cross' husband, already suspected something. Rather, he had just begun to suspect his wife of infidelity when she called him earlier that day to see if he could pick up their daughter from daycare, a task she always did without fail. Emma's arrival didn't change much, just sped up the timeline of events.
She gave him the packet free of charge.
Noticing she had been driving on auto-pilot (again) and her traitorous subconscious already had her driving towards the airport, Emma took in a sharp breath of air before her lungs stopped functioning. She hadn't checked the flight information in over an hour, give or take. Or two? She had no idea what was outbound. All she knew was she wanted to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. The impulse to leave - run away, not just the state anymore, but the country - was strong enough to scare her into pulling her car onto the shoulder.
She had to breathe. In, one two three. Out, one two three four. In, one two three. Out, one two three four.
What had gotten into her? Sure, she was a runner, always had been, but she had nothing to run from this time. Not really. Graham was out of her life. Stabby was dead, his cohort in jail awaiting trial.
She hit the hazards in frustration, stubbornly crossing her arms and arguing with herself about all the reasons why she needed to stay -
She was dramatically pissed at herself when her mind hit a big fat blank. She found she really didn't have any reasons to stay. All of her bills were paid for through the month of April. She had no pets, no plants, she hardly got any mail because of all her 'paperless' subscriptions. She had no packages en route.
She'd already met with Yolanda Hillsbury a few days ago, giving her client the majority of the packet with the photos and information she'd collected, as well as the audio file. All it would take was a simple email informing Yolanda of the mistress' name for the file, and the bloodsucking lawyers could take it from there.
She hadn't picked up any more cases, either. And her job was a contractor gig. She wasn't an employee, she had no ties to them, she didn't have to call in if she didn't want to work a day.
What else could keep her here? Or at least in the country? She decided to check her passport. In the trunk in the front of her bug. In the smog-induced heat of the almost-evening. On the side of the road. On a busy highway. Because, obviously, it was more pressing to ensure her passport was out of date than to find a respectable (and safe) location to leave the safety of her vehicle.
She really needed a reason not to go. But Emma Swan was not one for roots. Her entire life could be picked up and transplanted at the drop of a hat. Because that's how she set it up. That had always worked for her in the past.
But she was getting tired of always running.
And of course her passport was good for another year. And she had her go bag, right there in the trunk - toiletries, a few clothing items, spare charger. She'd even brought her quilt, knowing her desire to run far, far away would (likely) catch up to her at some point. That quilt was the only thing she owned that she would miss if left behind, and the only thing she ensured made it to and from her apartment since the prickle of get the hell out of dodge had assaulted her four days ago.
God, why was she always so prepared?!
Throwing her head back and groaning, she tossed the offending papers back into her bag, zipping it angrily, closing the lid in a huff before moving back to the driver's seat to rest her arms on the steering wheel, and her head on her arms.
She had everything she needed for a trip. Even one out of the country, which to be honest, she was leaning towards.
Eventually, she pulled her car back onto the highway, following the signs to the airport (stubbornly refusing to use her GPS on principle) before parking, packing the quilt into the spacious duffle that was hardly close to full. She even thought to grab her camera from the passenger's seat.
She felt like she was in a daze as she made her way to the ticket counter. The clerk looked at her funny when she asked for flights that left in an hour or less.
She had just missed the one for France. She tried not to feel too disappointed, this whole thing was on a whim after all. There was another flight out tomorrow, she could wait. But there was another international flight, leaving in less than an hour, and it had available seats.
Ireland wasn't as grand as Paris, but she had always wanted to visit (there and everywhere else) so…
She paid for the ticket before she could talk herself out of it, and made her way to the waiting area just outside the gate.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
Killian made it back to his gaff, just for a short time. Though he'd decided to stay in town for the festival, he still needed a bag if he was to stay at the inn for the duration. Traveling back and forth was doable, a bit of a hassle, but he wasn't taking any chances on angering any spirits. Not that he really believed he'd been visited by a spirit - particularly not that of his mother.
He'd decided to give in, take in the whole experience, including rooming there. He just needed to check on his servers in the room he'd remodeled specifically for the task if he was going to be away for most of the holiday. The rest of this week, and all of next week. He let out a long, exaggerated, sigh. He could hardly contain his excitement..
He decided to start in the cold room, as he called it, making his way through the kitchen into the small hall leading to the old den. It was as perfect a place as he could manage for his servers. Placed at the corner of his gaff, it was easily cooled. The room was almost constantly 18°C and he enjoyed the chill. It was expensive as cac, but he made more than enough to keep up his lovely ladies.
He punched in the code to the door at the end of the hall, before moving into the room, feeling the blast of cool, dry, air. He flipped on the light and lazily moved to the center of the room, where the two floor-to-ceiling racks were placed, the array of flickering green lights proving his servers were up and running properly. The sight always made him feel at ease.
Still, he opened each rack door in turn, checking and double checking that there were no other colored lights present, before moving around to the back to check the lights there, as well as the stability of the cables. Copper cables, fiber cables, power cables, all secure just as he left them.
Then he made his way to the corner where he kept the network rack, right next to the door, repeating the process. Colored lights, cables, double check.
Then he went to the crac unit. Part of the renovation was to install a separate air conditioning system for this room alone, which was why the air was so dry. Checking the small digital panel to ensure the numbers were where they needed to be, he opened it up just to be sure nothing was leaking, no tubes were loose. Of course everything was up and running properly. He took good care of them. Almost obsessively.
Then he made his way to the furthest corner of the room to check on the UPS - the uninterrupted power supply. All the numbers were showing normal, but he double checked four times to be sure, opening this machine up too. If anything went wrong while he was gone, the worst would be caused by this.
It could blow up his whole gaff. Theoretically. He'd have to make it a point to return fairly often. He needed an excuse to leave town if he was staying there, and this was a fairly good excuse, after all.
Knowing he had exhausted his checks in the former den, he moved back out of the room, flicking the light off, locking the door behind him, before he made his way to his own room to pack a bag.
Could it really have been his mum? It was Ireland, after all, magick seemed more prevalent here. Not that he'd been to many places. London, on a few occasions, mostly when he was younger, with his da. Paris once, because he had earned enough for a frivolous trip and decided on taking a vacation there. He had decided frivolity wasn't really him, but the experience - the women, rather - was worth the trip. He had learned many things while there.
Not just in his hotel, either.
But mostly, he stuck to his own island of Ireland, and the one thing he could not dispute was the magick that seemed to simply exist here. Perhaps the fae lived, truly, as well as all manners of creatures, and they preferred the island as he did.
Except that was utter nonsense.
Once his bag was fully packed, he dropped the duffle by the door before moving to check on the servers just once more. It was already past 11am, and he was sure he'd get a humorous verbal thrashing from the Innkeeper, Smee, but..
Just once more.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
Emma woke with a start to a gentle shaking. Eyes flying open, she glared at the innocent flight attendant who wore a small, understanding smile, and Emma instantly regretted her dagger eyes. Whoever he was, he didn't deserve her wrath for just doing his job.
She checked her watch. Which was now useless in Ireland, but it was nice to know the time at home, so she decided to leave the antique running on Eastern Standard. But it did tell her she had slept for nearly two hours, even if it felt more like a few seconds.
Checking her phone, which had automatically changed time zones as she traveled, she noticed it was 3pm here - 10am at home. Five hours difference. She'd have to get used to that.
Over seven hours on a plane, Emma stretched, feeling like death warmed over. She wished she had the foresight to grab a few sweaters, but considering how abrupt this trip had been, she decided she'd just have to grab something the first chance she got. They had clothing stores in Ireland, right? They didn't just run around naked all the time. Though that might increase their tourism.
At least she was wearing her red leather jacket - taken out of her bug at the last minute to get shoved into her duffle - and hoped the jeans would be warm enough. What was the weather like here, anyway?
She checked her phone again. Low 50's. She'd survived worse in New England with less for warmth than her red leather jacket. This was doable.
When they were allowed to 'move about the cabin', she stood to pull down her duffle, grateful it - just barely - fit the requirements for a carry-on so that she could completely ignore the baggage claim. It was the main reason she'd bought it, back when she was planning her first flight.
She'd gone to Tallahassee. She needed to know if the dream was worth the pipe of it all. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't her. When she left, it felt enough like closure that she could move on and - mostly - stop thinking about the what ifs.
She'd never forget the baby, though. But that was a can of worms for another day. She had enough open cans as it was.
It didn't take her long to leave the airport, once she disembarked, but once she did, she was at a loss. She really hadn't planned this out. She didn't have a rental car, or a hotel reservation -
It was windy, which was what got Emma to move into action, hailing a cap as she searched her map (there's an IKEA here?!) for a local clothing store. She had the address by the time she got her bag in the trunk, giving it to the cabbie behind the partition.
She managed to get the cabbie to wait while she bought a few sweaters (thank God they used debit over here) immediately putting one on over her tank top before getting her jacket back in place and stuffing the two other new sweaters into the duffle. It almost didn't fit with the quilt still stuffed into it, but she made do.
"Where to?" her cabbie patiently asked.
She had no idea. "A hotel, maybe? An inn?" Looking out the window at the busy streets of Dublin, she spoke on a whim. "Something rural, by the coast?"
Grinning, he pulled away from the curb, the gentle rocking lulling Emma back to sleep.
When she woke, she was completely out of it. She felt fuzzy, disorientated, and hungry. She panicked before she remembered where she was, and why she was there. Checking her phone had her doing a double take. She'd landed almost four hours ago.
"How long have we been driving?"
"Bit over three hours. Nearly there, lass."
Groaning, she realized her mistake. Not giving the cabby any real directions, he was taking her as far away from Dublin as he could for the fee and tip.
Asshole.
Not that she could blame him, really, he was just taking advantage of the situation. And her. It wasn't like she had told him to stay close to Dublin before passing out.
Did she even want to stay close to Dublin? She wasn't sure she cared. She had taken the flight here on a whim, because it was the only available flight within the hour.
"Where are we going, anyway?" She grumbled, her stomach complaining. "And will there be food there?"
"Aye lass, there'll be food. There's a festival going on, which is why I chose it for you since you took a wee kip. Plenty of food."
"But where?" did she have to spell it out for him?
"Here."
While he was pulling over, she took a chance and looked out the window. They had arrived at what looked like the Irish version of an old western - the town was literally just a single, curved street, only it ended at the docks of the Atlantic. None of the buildings were the same color. Most of the buildings were pale, yellow, white, green, blue. But there were bright ones too, the fire engine red, navy blue, pink, orange, and dark brown.
Looking out the other available windows, she could see the greenery surrounding her, a few houses off in the distance, and what looked to be the top of a tower - from an actual castle maybe - in the distance.
She scolded her surprise in seeing cars, and power lines, realizing she didn't have a converter for her electronics. That was a thing, right? Europe had different plugs - she thought.
She'd deal with it later.
Now, though, that (mostly subtle) street was blocked off so pedestrians could take it over. She could see all sorts of folks, some dressed similar to her, but others dressed in costumes from all sorts of periods in time.
The hanging lights that stretched from one side of the street to the other left her feeling a little breathless, twinkling in the late evening light. There were lanterns, and streamers, and glitter seemed to just float. How did they manage that? And was it safe to breathe?
"The Inn is in the middle of the street, lass, on the right side."
She nodded, her head swimming in streamers and kiosks and posters - was that one of a wedding announcement?
"What kind of festival-" She stopped, staring at a woman not too far off in a white dress, kissing a man in respectable brown pants and a sweater, a crowd nearly blocking her view. She could only see them because she was higher on the hill leading down into town.
"A love festival, of course. Perfect place to get married!"
She rolled her eyes as he popped the trunk before she could wrap her mind around what he was implying - not to mention all the colors flooding her vision. The street was mostly decorated in reds, silvers, and golds, but these people were not shy of branching out from that color scheme. Blues, yellows, and greens also popped up. And pink.
Maybe it would be easier to find the colors not present in the decor. Black wasn't there. Except in printed letters.
"I didn't bring anyone with me." She mumbled, only half paying attention to him now. There was another woman, another white dress, and another kissing scene. Love festival, huh?
But he heard her, and laughing, told her they'd fix that for her. She swiveled back toward him to ask, noticing his far too innocent smile and polite, but pointed, look.
Rolling her eyes, because she just couldn't help it, she paid him via the credit card machine attached to his chair, and was out the door before she could fathom her actions. She was assaulted by the scent of the sea and what could only be described as fair food as she grabbed her duffle, and made her way to the right side of the street, finding the inn with only a tiny amount of difficulty, snatching up the last available room and all but throwing her bag onto the bed before leaving and walking back out onto the street.
The smells were what caught and kept her attention. Screw the decor. While most of the kiosks were for souvenir type items - she didn't care enough to pay attention to them - there were still several booths there that sold food. And she was famished.
She didn't even care that she was in another country, and had no idea what they'd be serving as 'fair food'. She planted herself into the first line she found - which wasn't as long as she anticipated - and ordered the first two things she could read and pronounce, because they were in English. Or it passed as English?
The Scotch Eggs were so good, she got back in line for more even though she wasn't entirely sure what else they were made of, but the Irish Tater Kegs felt a little too American. Not that she was complaining. They were basically loaded baked potatoes in the form of an oversized tater tot, and they had corned beef in them too.
She was going to have to get a gym membership when she got home. Or find some way to work out while she was here. Did they have boxing in Ireland?
Once her hunger was satisfied, she took her time strolling up and down the sectioned off street. Giving in a little, she bought souvenirs. A shirt that said something in Irish, she assumed, and a bar of handmade soap that used local ingredients. She also bought a hand knit, wool sweater in the most beautiful shade of dusty rose. And Emma wasn't usually into pink.
She only kind of wanted the stuffed animal - it was a bright red dragon, with a gold belly. But she was too old for those kinds of things, so she set it back down gently and moved on.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
Killian barely noticed the white car at the end of the street, realizing it was a taxi only because of the yellow and blue sign directly on the roof of it. He'd spent most of the day in his room at the inn, stalling the inevitable, skipping lunch purely out of spite for the whole event.
But dinner was another story altogether. Heading back to the pub for the meal, he missed spotting the newcomer by mere moments, though once he re-emerged from the pub and began to make his way around - while avoiding the longing gazes of the single women, naturally - he did spot one lass fondly holding a bright red stuffed dragon.
Though she was a beautiful lass, she was still a lass, and Killian would avoid her too. For whatever reason, though, she had caught his attention. Perhaps it was her hair? Between the setting sun, and the twinkling lights strung between buildings, her hair seemed impossible to ignore. It was practically glowing.
Feeling the smile pull at his lips, he shook his head to clear it in favor of finding the street vendor who was peddling the damned bread pudding he could smell all the way down the street.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
Despite the fact that this town - wherever she was - was rubbing her single status in her face every millisecond, Emma was enjoying herself. She'd managed to make her way towards some amazing bread pudding, eating it without a care as to how she looked - awkwardly holding her gift bags - while scarfing the desert down.
The stall with the pudding was pretty close to the docks at the end of the street, so Emma sat on a bench and stayed there as the sun set, her empty paper bowl thing in her lap as she looked over the docks, watching the waves roll in, and the occasional - singular, there was only one - boat roll into port.
As soon as the top of the sun dipped below the horizon, she sighed, rubbing her eyes. She was beyond tired. She was surprised she'd managed to stay awake this long.
As she made her way back to the inn, slowly, she would spot yet more women in white. Often, the women were locked into a kiss, or hand in hand with a man, or hugging people nearby. Love festival.. right.
And just like that, her happy little bubble burst. Emma had no one to run to and hug just because she felt like it. She really wasn't sure the last time she had given someone a hug. Which was part of the reason she was here. She wanted to learn to be more open. Let someone in for once.
"Quite a sight they are, aye?"
She turned to the old man, frail and sitting on the bench next to her. She hadn't realized she had stopped moving. She almost assumed he needed to be in an assisted living home, but then she caught the sparkle of his eyes. He may be pushing 90, or more, but he was just as lively as any man.
"Yeah." She replied softly, giving him a small smile before turning back to face the onslaught of love.
"Are you here to find a husband?"
Of all the things -
"Wait - what?" It hit her what he said. He had her undivided attention now.
He waved a hand around, as if that explained anything. "The festival!" She just looked at him, confused as hell, noticing the sparkle only got brighter. "People come here to be betrothed just as they used to long ago."
She scoffed. "What, marry a stranger?"
"Aye, lass."
"In this day and age?!"
He wasn't supposed to agree with her. He was supposed to laugh, explain his true meaning, and she was going to nod and smile and sleep for a week. But no. He had to agree with her. Because sane people got married to strangers all the time.
Ireland's Vegas? What the hell was this place? Who would do such a thing? Sign on the dotted line, get stuck with another human for the rest of your life?
But then she considered that concept. She'd later blame her jet lag. Would marrying a stranger be all that bad? Someone who would be there, always. She figured anyone crazy enough to sign on would be willing to try for a successful marriage. Right?
But, she was an out-of-towner. She didn't even live in the same country.
"I couldn't. I don't even live here."
He chuckled. "Never say never, a mhuirnín."
He pulled out a stack of post it notes, and a sharpie (which she was surprised to know even existed here) before carefully scribbling something down and handing it to her.
Two buildings up on the right, it read. You'll find Amelie at a fold out table. Ask her.
"Ask her wha-" Emma couldn't finish her question, because in the half second it took her to read the post-it, the old man had disappeared. "Spry, for an old guy." she mumbled to herself.
Closing her eyes, tight, trying to fight off the tiredness she felt there, she shook her head before she headed toward the inn - which also happened to be in the direction of Amelie and her fold out table. She had to pass them to get to the inn. They were even right across from each other, on the same street.
Curiosity must have gotten the best of her, because as she passed the first building, she actively started looking for the table in question, which was supposed to be in front of the next building. Finding it, she walked at a slightly faster pace than was normal for her, until she asked for Amelie.
"O! Is Old man Murphy sending folk my way again?"
Emma raised an eyebrow. "I guess?" earning a chuckle from the raven haired woman.
"Aye, that's about right. If you're here for a husband, now is the time. Tomorrow is the last day to put yer name down as we don't take any over the weekend to avoid the bolloxed."
Boll-what? Clearing her head, she moved on. "I'm from America, though, and I'm going back."
Amelia shrugged. "What of it, lass?"
"Surely.. A man from here.. would want to stay here?"
Amelie's laughter was big, and bright. "And what gave you that idea? Ask him yet?" Turning her mischievous eyes serious for - probably - the only second in her entire life, "What's the harm? If he doesn't want it, don't consummate the marriage, and the wedding will be void the very next day."
Emma signed up before she had time to think about the word 'consummate'. She didn't have the bandwidth for those kinds of thoughts, and it wasn't like her 'knight in Irish armor' was actually going to show up.
Right?
Statistics.. or something.
Thank you for reading!