A/N: This is a joyfully Captain Swan story, but there are a few warnings. It does start with Emma/Neal and Killian/Milah. I don't write non CS, so there won't be any sexual anything happening 'on screen', so to speak, between those couples, but I won't guarantee there may not be a mention. This story contains numerous episodes of cheating. If any of these things make you squick or are not your bag, carry on.
I'm using this as a writing exercise and hope for fast updates with this, so fingers crossed that I can stick to that for once.
Emma scrolled through the email her manager had sent detailing the new role she was being offered. It was something fresh, something different from what she normally focused on—no hint of a police procedural in sight—and based on the tone, it sounded like they were very interested in getting her signed for one of the leads. She stretched her legs out along the couch, digging her cold toes underneath the pillows in search of some warmth, only to yank them back when she encountered something both crinkly and wet.
"Dammit, Neal! What the hell is this?" she growled, glaring at the brown sludge coating her foot.
She leaned forward, careful to angle her toes away from any other surface, and peeled the throw pillow from the couch. Smeared across the white fabric and the expensive leather was what looked like the remainder of a milky way bar, the wrapper still clinging to the puddle of caramel and chocolate.
"You have got to be kidding me. Neal!"
The only response she got was the sound of something hitting a pan full of oil in the kitchen, the apartment filled with the sizzling hiss of something frying. Dropping her phone and forgetting all about the email she'd just been reading, she hobbled down the hall into the bathroom to clean up, wondering how in the hell to get out a chocolate and caramel stain. Why he couldn't just learn to clean up after himself was beyond understanding. Sometimes it felt like she was living with a teenager who never wanted to grow up, and she couldn't help but long for the days when her apartment was clean and didn't smell like whatever weird odor it was that Neal always brought home—grease and cigarette smoke, maybe.
Her foot finally clean enough to be walked on, she headed into the kitchen to get some paper towels only to be greeted by what looked like every dish she owned spread out on the counters and island. Every surface was dusted in flour and drips of batter, measuring spoons leaving trails of oil and sugar across the floor and counters alike.
"Oh my god," she cringed, knowing the mess would be left for her. "What are you doing?"
"I was wondering when you'd get off the phone," Neal poked, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder before motioning proudly over the mess that just seemed to get worse each time she looked at it. "I'm cooking."
The casual way he always stabbed at her phone use was exactly what she didn't want to hear right now. Maybe she wouldn't have to spend so much time working if he bothered looking for something himself. He'd had a recurring role on a family comedy when they met, but he'd been fired not long after, and for the last six months, Emma was pretty sure he hadn't even gone to any of the auditions she'd mentioned. In fact, she wasn't even sure if he had an agent anymore.
"When was the last time you had a Milky Way?" she asked, choosing to ignore his snide comment. She just wasn't in the mood.
"That's a weird question. I don't know, maybe last week? You didn't pick any up the last time you ran to the store."
Emma nodded, her lips drawn tight as she tore paper towels from the rack and returned to the living room, pulling what she could of the melted mass from the couch and thinking she'd need to resort to Google to get the rest out. Her anger bubbled with every sticky string of caramel that wrapped around her fingers. Why couldn't he go to the store on his day off? He only had seven of them. She stomped back into the kitchen, hitting the garbage can a little harder than necessary and tossing the mess of chocolate and paper inside.
There was just enough room in the overload sink—what had he used the colander for—that she could wash her hands.
"There's leftovers in the fridge. What was so important that you had to turn the entire kitchen into a complete disaster?" she questioned, already adding up how much time it would take her to wash and wipe everything down.
She'd be lucky if she was able to get back to her manager before tomorrow as requested.
"You remember that travel show we watched the other night?" he prodded, his eyes glued to the pan as it hissed on the stovetop, a spatula held ready in his hand. "You mentioned you hadn't had good churros since that trip to Mexico, so I thought maybe I'd make you some."
The anger that had been just about to boil over slipped away to that place far enough below everything else that she could just go back to ignoring it.
"Neal," she sighed, suddenly more exhausted than anything else. "Thanks."
"Of course, Ems—anything for you."
In the living room her phone blared to life, the dark tones of The Imperial March echoing as it vibrated across the coffee table.
"Work calls," Neal sniped, a trace of resentment running beneath the pleasant smile he fixed in her direction. "Wouldn't want to keep Regina waiting."
It was amazing how quickly that anger came right back to the top of everything, and she found her feet pushing her as far away from Neal as possible, snatching her phone from the table and forgetting entirely about the couch as she stormed into the bedroom.
"What?" she hissed, slamming the door behind her and clenching the cell like it was something she wanted to crush. "What is so important that you couldn't give me a few more hours, Regina?"
The other end of the line was silent, as if Regina had either hung up, or was waiting for an apology. Well, she wasn't getting one—not today.
"Is there something you needed, Regina?"
"Are you okay?" Regina asked, not as a friend, but as an employee that was curious to know how soon she would have to contact Emma's PR team and inform them a mental breakdown was imminent.
"I'm fine. It's just a bad time. I got the details you sent. I just haven't read through everything yet."
"Well, that explains why I haven't heard from you. Honestly, I thought you cared more about your career than that. I was quite clear this was urgent. Don't take your time with this one, Miss Swan—they want you, but they can't wait much longer."
The line went dead after Regina had delivered her scolding and Emma sighed, dropping to the bed and rolling onto her back as she flicked back into her email and started again from the top. It was an interesting premise with even more depth than she'd originally thought—a new series that centered on the mental health of a man who had developed delusions after a car accident that took his brother, leading him to believe everyone in the hospital was a character from a fairy tale world—but then she got the part that Regina really focused on, the money.
"Holy shit!" Emma gasped, double checking the figures and thinking how she'd never seen such a good offer—not for someone in her bracket. It was unheard of. "I guess they really do want me."
It wasn't until she read through the rest of the itinerary and details that she wondered if the big paycheck wasn't recompense for the filming location and duration—the middle of Nowhere, Maine, as if Maine wasn't already considered the middle of nowhere.
She read everything twice before she shot Regina a quick text.
E: I'll take it
The message had only just sent and there were already three ellipses following. Emma could practically hear her manager's smug response.
R: I knew you would. I'll be in touch.
There should have been nerves fluttering in her stomach, or at least a solid pit of dread at the prospect of having to walk into the kitchen and tell Neal, but there was nothing. It was a big decision to move across the country for what could be a long-term role, but it was still her decision to make.
Hopefully, he would be happy for her, he would understand that this had the potential of lifting her out of her rut and providing great income for the foreseeable future. There were some great names attached, veterans of the industry that were looking to branch out into a new genre.
She was excited for the first time in a long time.
She didn't need to feel guilty, at least that was what she told herself as a niggling pang of guilt worked its way into her chest.
It would be good to break it to him gently though, to put a good spin on it.
The minutes ticked by and she finally realizing she couldn't put it off any longer, she wandered into the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her as she looked for him, but the apartment was empty. The stove was turned off and a plate, probably the last clean one, was waiting on the counter with a pile of golden churros perched on top of a greasy paper towel.
Next to it was another torn paper towel with a note scratched onto it in sharpie.
The boys called and I'm heading out for a few beers. Don't wait up. Enjoy the churros.
She waited for the anger to bubble back to the top, but there was nothing—no anger, no guilt, just a deep, hollow nothingness that grew and yawned as she fingered the scrap of a note transparent with oily fingerprints. Feeling like maybe this job had come at the best possible time, she picked up the plate of churros and walked over to the trash, watching them slide in with the rest of the garbage.