A/N: I'm so behind on FFN. I blame my ADD brain: "oh lets post to FFN, oh wait, there's photos on google drive I want to move to dropbox, oh wait I need my coffee, oh shoot, I forgot about FFN again," which is why I'm here rn.. anyway.. Thank you for the wonderful comments (they really are writer catnip)! They give me all the warm and fuzzys!

More thanks than I can possibly express goes to Jrob64 who beta'd this for me, is always cheering me on (and she is also one of my favorite CS writers, so go check out her work too if you haven't already!)


Betrothed

Killian groaned at his alarm. He wasn't entirely sure why he kept it on, he had nothing to do today other than wander the street in an effort to keep peace with whatever brought the scent of his mother to him.

Which meant spending some effort on the festival. Like socializing with the townsfolk and the absurd amount of tourists they actually had this year. Or buying things to support his fellow countryman. He didn't mind as much when it involved ale, but he drew the line at custom t-shirts.

When had this holiday exploded like this? He'd never seen this many unfamiliar faces here, ever. He had been here during the festival the year before, and it wasn't nearly this populated with strangers. Granted, he had only been present for a day or two before the lass and her father ruined the attempt he was making then.

He knew he could always avoid most of it by going home, checking his servers or the UPS or the crac unit. Everyone packed up their goods and kiosks by 10 on a weekday anyway - only it was Friday, which counted as the weekend. Which meant they'd be going after craic to 90, getting pissed, having a grand ol' time till the wee hours of tomorrow.

He groaned at that, pulling the covers over his face to block out the sun's assault on his eyelids.

He could still go home. Take his time, a nice long shower without the bother of wandering down the hall to the bath, have a bite to eat, before checking his cold room.

A thought hit him in his stomach. Scotch eggs.

The idea of the delectable treat of boiled eggs, wrapped in sausage, breaded, fried, drizzled in some fancy mustard.. it had Killian's stomach rumbling. He loved them, they were his favorite breakfast treat. And they were right outside, being sold on the street by a vendor.

He could definitely work with that.

But first, pants.

Being nearly 9 in the morning by the time he lazily left the inn, the street was just starting to liven up. Which meant the Scotch eggs were available, to his sheer delight. Once he had the square paper bowl in hand, he moved up the hill toward the end of the street where his car was parked. Seeing Tink spot him with a wide grin, Killian gave her a nod and a half wave distractedly, trying to move faster, causing him to bump into old man Murphy.

"Bloody hell, Murphy!"

The old man just chuckled, amused. "Jones, m'boy! Dia duit."

Killian sighed. "Dia is muire duit." He knew he was in it now. No one escaped the old man. "Conas atá tú?"

"Tá mé go maith, go raibh maith agat. Agus tú féin?"

"Well, thanks mate. Heading home for a bit."

The old man did look a bit disheartened when he went back to English. Killian felt the familiar pang of guilt. He knew there weren't many who even knew how to converse in the old tongue anymore, not that he could hold an entire conversation with the old man. Even here, most spoke The Queen's English.

Bloody English. His father included.

"Tá brón orm." He apologized, lighting up the old man's face.

"All's fine, lad." Off the hook, Killian breathed a sigh of relief. "What has you heading home so early, m'boy?"

Irish, for all its glorious sounds, did not have a clear cut path to talk about Killian's cold room - that he knew of, anyway.

"The computers."

"Aye, the big one. Did it explode?" The old man looked as excited as a child on Christmas morning. Killian tried not to think about that too hard.

Instead, he just raised a brow in amusement. "That's what I'd like to find out."

"Oh, stay m'boy! I'm excited to see if anyone will agree for the American, some good craic that is. Aren't you?"

American? "This is the first, Murphy."

"Shame, that. She's beautiful. Looked lonely. Going home to the colonies, she told me."

"Which is why you're curious, eh?"

If possible, the older man had a mischievous glint in his eyes, but Killian missed it, too lost in his own ponderings to keep up the conversation much past that. Somehow, he managed, in both English and Irish, to wish for God to bless the older man - because Irish was full of blessings instead of normal greetings or farewells - before heading to his car. But something stopped him before he got very far.

A woman who lived in the colonies, here. Had the local tourism really reached that far? What was going on here? And even more curiously, she was returning there, and she was set to be blindly matched. Which meant she could return to her home with a new husband. Where would she find an Irish man wanting to move?

He looked toward the post office behind him, knowing Amelie would be out in front of it, setting up to take the last names before the weekend. They refused to blindly marry off drunkards. It wasn't Vegas.

He didn't have a lot of time to process. He knew in the back of his mind, just what he was trying to process, but he wouldn't admit it to himself.

She was a stranger, from an entirely different world. Had she come to Ireland, here, this week specifically, just for the betrothal? Why had she signed up?

He supposed that was why the rule of consummation existed. To have time - albeit a short amount - to figure out if they would keep the marriage or not.

'They' being her and her unknown husband, if she landed one. Naturally.

He realized he had arrived at the table Amelie sat at before he knew his feet were moving toward her, the container of Scotch eggs all but forgotten in his left hand.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Emma was still yawning at 10-something am, Ireland Standard whatever, when her feet hit the bottom stair. She was on the way out when the lady behind the old desk called out for her, with an envelope in hand.

Apparently, Emma had mail. Which was weird. No one knew she was in Ireland, let alone which... City? Town? Village? It was a small... Place. And Emma wasn't sure she knew where she was to have been able to tell someone else.

And the only people she did know, didn't know she'd even left the country. So. This was unexpected.

Nodding absentmindedly to the lady behind the desk - more focused on the fact that this letter had no stamps of any kind to indicate it went through whatever postal service Ireland had - it didn't even have an address listed - Emma scurried back up to the privacy of her room, up two flights of stairs, at the end of the hall. Even though it was a small room, barely able to contain the queen bed, dual end tables, and dresser (and the bathroom was shared, down the hall) it was a much better space than her apartment.

There were actual sheets. Decent sheets. She'd even made the bed for once in her life, her own quilt proudly on top. It looked good there. The floor was clean, no questionable spots on the hardwood. There was more furniture than just the mattress, which was on an actual bed frame instead of the floor. She even put her clothes - the few she'd brought with her, and the few new items she bought - into the dresser.

What was it about a new place, a different space, that made her want to be different? Better than she normally was? Kinder to herself? Or was this more of that pesky pebble that had shifted? She could go on.

But the letter was distracting.

She made her way - two, three steps - to the bed, gently sitting down to avoid the creaking of the springs, carefully opening the wax seal (because these people went all out) to read whatever was in -

Someone agreed to marry her.

Emma Swan, orphan, loner, was getting married. To a stranger. Today. At dusk. There were directions. And a map. In less than seven hours, she was -

Holy shit. Her brain shut down with an overload of thoughts.

Someone actually agreed to marry a strange, American woman, and move with her back to the states.

Did they? Did they even know she was American? Did they know she didn't live here, wouldn't stay here -

Was breathing important? Maybe her lack of oxygen would turn her into a corpse bride.

Bride. She was going to be a bride.

Sure, she knew it was a possibility when she signed up. That was the whole point of signing up. The sliver of hope in the idea of a husband who would be stuck with her, who would never leave and she'd never be lonely again... Someone she could befriend and maybe, one day, learn to love... It was just a sliver of hope. Which was ridiculous. Divorce existed.

But it wasn't supposed to - no one was supposed to -

Because every sliver of hope she'd ever had, had proven false. She learned long ago never to put much stock into wanting things. Which was why her expensive quilt was the only real thing she owned.

She finally breathed.

And then she stopped again.

How the hell was she supposed to take a husband to her crappy apartment? Assuming he would agree to even going to the states with her. She didn't know what she wanted to do back in the states. What if she stayed here?

What had she gotten herself into this time?

She didn't have to go back to that apartment. Or that city. Or that state. They could move anywhere. She'd already been considering changing jobs and she already had everything she cared about, right here, ready to fit back into her duffle.

Except her laptop. That was in the bug. But both the bug and the ancient laptop could easily be picked up… or replaced. She'd been meaning to get a car to better... surveil in. Which she wouldn't need if she was quitting, and moving, and -

It was a little ridiculous how unattached she was to her old life.

A husband would certainly change that.

She was getting ahead of herself. What if he didn't like her? What if he took one look, and ran?

Her eyes raced to the mirror on top of the dresser. She wasn't... Unpleasant to look at, especially when she got all dressed up -

She didn't have a dress.

The thought made Emma crumple, her head hitting her hands, the letter smacking her in the face as she did.

Emma wasn't one for fantasizing about her wedding, thinking it would never ever happen, but a few thoughts on the day did escape her walls and implanted themselves into her brain over the years.

Like the fact that she wanted a white dress. A pretty one, too. Emma didn't do pretty, but a pretty dress for her own wedding was the exception, apparently.

Well. She did do pretty for her honey traps.

She also didn't do pink, and she had a pink - brand new - sweater hanging in her borrowed closet.

Did she even bring any makeup? God, she was a mess.

She only had seven hours - not counting the time she was currently wasting while sitting on the bed. She shot up, running out of her room, down the stairs in record time, halfway to the door before she turned toward the lady at the desk to ask about finding a dress. Naturally, this tiny town actually had a dress shop specifically for weddings. Of course they did.

Maybe this would be ok.

Maybe she could learn to be more open with him.

The thought was distracting. Every man she passed, she looked for a ring, or a companion, wondering if this was the one?

That she would marry, of course, not the one. That would be ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as getting married in seven - less than seven - hours.

As soon as she walked into the store, the old woman took one look at her and disappeared into the back, leaving behind a confused Emma and a giddy young girl with bright red curls.

"Worry not, lass, she does this when she knows your dress before you do."

When she saw it, she knew the kid was right.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Killian paced his cold room, from one side to the other, making sure to avoid the UPS. The raging emotions swirling inside him would not calm down.

He could use a moment with his brother. Which was another thing causing his anxiety. How could he leave them? The stones by the Alder tree, the home that had been in his family for generations?

Easily, he realized. If only he could make it work with her. How, though? He'd only been in one serious relationship, he wasn't even remotely confident that he could be the kind of partner a woman deserved. He'd never been to the colonies. He knew life there was different. Perhaps she could help guide him. Was that expecting too much?

Sighing, he checked his watch. Five hours. He had five hours to figure out his life. Signing up, choosing the American, he had no idea everything would happen so fast.

He wondered if she knew yet, how she was taking the news.

Glancing at the servers, he knew he could hire Will to look in on them. The man may be an eejit, but he could check for green lights and count his numbers, which was mostly what Killian needed. Anything more drastic was a seven-plus hour flight back home.

Surely it wouldn't take him long to replace his equipment?

Pulling out his phone, he did a quick search where Google told him just how many data centers or colocation centers existed in America. He really didn't need his own gaff gitup. Wherever she lived, he was confident he could build out new racks in a colocation center, dismantle these, and continue his business from there.

Feeling like he could breathe again, having at least a few answers, he made the trek out of the room, locking it behind him, and out the back door toward the family graveyard.

This might be the last goodbye for a while.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

The dress was white. Off shoulder. A-Line, Asymmetrical. The hem stopped right below her knees, but continued lower in the back, stopping at her ankles. It was perfect. And paired with sandals, because fuck heels in an outdoor - event.

She couldn't think the W word anymore. It was too real. This wasn't really a W, anyway. It was a small thing. An ancient tradition, going back to the pagans of Ireland.

The dress hugged her curves, the skirt swaying with her every movement. She almost felt like a princess. Until her gaze rose to her face.

She didn't want to use a lot of makeup. She rarely wore it, and figured he needed to see her for her before saying 'I do' - or whatever the Irish equivalent was. But she was starting to worry she wasn't enough as just herself. In more ways than one.

Sighing, she took off the dress - again. Five hours. She didn't need to wear it all day. And it would be unfair if he saw her in it before they officially met - at the ceremony like a normal.. betrothal.

It would also be unfair if he saw her and figured out she was his - betrothed? - before she knew who he was.

All's fair in love and blind betrothals.

Amelie had explained everything after Emma bought the dress, freaking out all the way to the fold out table. Obviously it was all over her face, because the kind woman rushed over and helped her calm down, suggesting Emma visit the location on the map which really did take her to her own little corner of the street, a spot in sight of the docks. All she had to do was show up with her letter. Then Amelie showed her the symbol on the wax seal. It was her - betrothed? - the man she would - his seal. He would have one just like it. And so would the officiant.

They'd have a short handfasting, and be ushered into the inn to - stuff.

Emma just couldn't. It had been too long since she last -

Nope.

She needed to eat. Food was good. And five hours was a lot of time to waste.

But she was so nervous, the thought of food made her queasy.

She got dressed in her jeans, the first sweater she grabbed, which was cream colored (ignoring the fact that she was a bride now and cream screamed that) and pulled her red leather over it.

Tying her boots, she knew she had to get over herself and go outside. Force herself to eat, not throw it back up, stay outside until it was time to get ready…

For her wedding.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Killian was nervous. Or nauseated. Or both? Definitely both.

Not knowing what to do with himself, he'd been walking up and down the street, avoiding women even more now that he knew one might be his future wife.

The not knowing was going to kill him, surely.

Three more hours.

He couldn't bring himself to go to the pub. Not today. Not when there was a chance of running into Will - or Tink. He didn't feel like having that conversation. Even though they likely already knew.

They absolutely knew. He hadn't been very subtle, walking right up to Amelie for anyone to see. And of course Amelie would have told her husband, who would have told the bartender, who would tell Will - along with every other patron of the establishment. Then there was Murphy. He'd tell random women, including Tink, just to see how many would sign up after finding out Killian had his name down.

Manipulative bastard.

And Killian fell for it this year.

Reaching the docks, avoiding the spot, for the third time in the hour, he decided to hell with it. He moved down the slick stone steps, taking them carefully, and entered the harbor master's office (shack) to find something productive to do.

But he couldn't get his mind off what would happen in three hours.

His best clothes were laid out on his borrowed bed, though he knew it wasn't what she was used to for wedding wear. He'd made the mistake of looking up typical American weddings. They were huge parties, long ceremonies, costly, and rivaled his idea of a royal ball. He wondered if she'd want one when they - if they made it to America together.

He had to keep in mind that this wasn't a done deal. Not before the consummation. And certainly not after. Divorce rates in America were at an all time high.

But Amelie confirmed his earlier suspicions. None of the marriages from féile an ghrá had ever ended in divorce. A few annulments, due to the consummation rule, but those were less than a dozen spanning as far back as the festival's creation, which began a few centuries ago.

How could he expect to consummate the marriage after only knowing her a few hours? She wasn't French, and he highly doubted any woman would appreciate taking him - a stranger - to bed willingly without a few libations.

He didn't even know this woman, and he was starting to think she'd be the death of him.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Emma had spent an hour wandering the streets, avoiding men in general. She found a book store when her countdown read four more hours, and she hunkered down there, pretending to read something that was not in English before the sales clerk found her, and took her to the English section, suggesting a few titles to help her pass the time.

Nodding, Emma contemplated the suggestions before looking around, settling on a Nancy Drew book that looked older than her apartment. She'd heard good things about that series... Who cared if it was a children's book?

Enthralled in The Secret of the Old Clock, Emma jumped when her phone alarm went off.

An hour and a half until -

She raced to pay for the book, knowing she had to buy it now (she was almost to the end) before running out of the store, and racing past pedestrians to the inn.

Luckily, she managed to snag the shower without having to wait, taking her time, knowing her phone had another alarm set for an hour till the 'I do's'.

Which made her wonder. Was kissing a part of the tradition - ceremony - whatever - thing? Would she... And he...? So many women in white, kissing since she arrived. Was that in her (very) near future, too?

The alarm went off as she was stepping out of the tub, clean and drying off. She didn't have a robe, never owning one, so she settled for wrapping her towel around her and poking her head out the door, hoping to hell no one would catch her half naked in the hallway.

When she found it empty, she scurried to her room which was - thankfully - only a few doors down from the bathroom. The old, metal key nearly slipped from her hand when she heard bootsteps on the stairs, encouraging her to speed up.

When she was (finally) on the other side of the door, she breathed out what felt like a lifetime of relief, leaning against the door to gather her bearings, before working to dry her hair.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Killian was just a few steps down the street from the inn when his watch chimed softly - another hour passed, one hour to go. He made his way in, up the stairs, hearing a door slam from the floor above as he stepped onto the first floor, making his way to his room.

He really shouldn't have been working by the docks, not today. He supposed he'd have chosen to shower either way. At least he got some work done before -

So that he could focus on her. If she'd have him.

It would be quite ironic if the woman he agreed to marry - finally, according to some - turned out to be the only lass who didn't want him.

He tried not to think about that.

What he did think about was the shawl on his bed, a last minute thought when leaving his home earlier that day. Green, knit by his mother for a day like this - for his future wife. He wanted to bring it with him to the ceremony, as a gift to her. Not knowing how she would take the gesture, though, gave him pause.

He argued with himself the entire time he was in the shower.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Emma had about 20 minutes till she was supposed to be there, but she was frozen, just sitting on her bed. She'd walked the street enough to know it only took between five and ten minutes to get to her destination, depending on other pedestrians or if she allowed herself to get distracted or not.

She was pretty sure the entire town could have an orgy in the middle of the street and she'd still manage to be too focused on her destination.

Trying to breathe, she stood to check her reflection again. She actually looked like a bride. A rustic, country bride maybe, but a bride nonetheless.

She'd left her hair down, partially because the dress wasn't all that warm, but because... Her natural waves looked particularly pretty today. She didn't have the heart to change it.

It didn't help that she was 90% sure if she tried to style it, she'd end up ruining it and then she'd have messed up the natural curls for nothing and end up with a horrible mess and -

She'd found plenty of makeup in a side pocket of her duffle, only choosing to put on some mascara and lip tint. Just enough to enhance her natural appearance without altering how she looked. This was the most she ever thought about makeup. Her honey traps required a ton of it, so she used a ton of it. Otherwise, she stuck to pretty much nothing.

Turning to the window, she thought about wearing her red leather jacket, or a sweater, or just bracing the cold. What would he think of her if she arrived unprepared for the weather? It had been in the mid-50s earlier, but she was chilled now that the sun was about to set, and her dress was thin, and her sandals - while attractive and pretty enough for a fancy outdoor event - did nothing to keep her warm.

What was she doing? She couldn't even take care of herself. Forgetting to eat meals, sleeping at random times, coming home at all hours of day and night.

What man deserved that?

She didn't have to be that way. She'd been wanting to make changes. And this marriage could be the start of that. Right? Maybe?

Reminding herself that the ceremony was just a formality, the legality came later, and she didn't actually have to stay married... Emma steeled herself to walk out the door, completely forgetting to cover up for the weather.


Thank you for reading!