captainodonewithyou:

Leather Jacket Bound

This theory. This theory.

As usual, I owe Lanni my life and probably the entire last half of this fic.

Also on FF.NET

They have found a remarkable number of books since Henry had made the stunning realization that the one about their family simply could not be the only one.  Regina’s black-bound novel missing a page exactly where the one stowed in her office ought to belong.  A royal-blue number embedded with lovely dark stones that they quickly identify as Belle’s.  They pile up and they do not try to hang on to them, returning them to the hands they belong in.

Henry has a silly little notion they are handing out hope.

Emma strangely cannot convince herself he is entirely wrong.

Until they find Killian’s.

The book is old and heavy and trimmed with silver, and when she opens it a ship rises up from the page—one she recognizes immediately as his.

She is certain he will be thrilled.  But when she presents it to him with a bright smile he can only offer her one with tight lips and dull eyes in return.  

“I’ve read Peter Pan. Someone should probably take a leap back in time and tell J.M. Barrie he fucked up.” She smirks as she presses the ridiculously heavy book into his arms.

The smile doesn’t falter but his eyes do not brighten as he tucks it neatly on a shelf next to the television and she is certain he has not even glanced at it.

So she does.  It starts on a rare night he does not spend with her.  She is cleaning—not because she makes a habit of it but because Henry dumped mac-n-cheese on the side table—when the thick, dusty binding sat on the shelf catches her attention.

She doesn’t want to invade his privacy.  But as soon as she runs her fingers down the fine shining squiggles, she cannot help but pull it down into her arms and examine it more closely.  Her fingers play gently up the spine and around to the front, and the leather binding smells eerily of him as she cautiously opens to the first page.

It is yellow and the words are worn, but her fingers find their way to a delicately painted grin planted firm beneath a pair of the chubbiest cheeks she has ever seen and eyes bluer than they even are now, all reaching out from the surface of the page, almost with magical precision.  She touches the freckles on his nose and studies how his mop of dark hair falls sloppily into his bright eyes and sinks slowly to a seat on the couch, holding the story closer to her as she turns the page.

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