It’s my blog’s second birthday today, yay! To honor that and because it’s Tuesday today, I decided to finally post this fic I have been working on for actual months. This fic is dedicated to @captainwiley because she let me use her parents’ epic romance to turn it into a fic prompt (she’s the rl Henry of this fic and just an amazing human being and beta-reader ♥ ) Also major thanks to @artandteaandstuff because she corrected and flailed too ♥
summary: Every Tuesday, she’s there, working late with her son and every Tuesday so is he. He offers to keep Henry busy so she can finish her tasks, but neither of them would have expected that Henry would grow to think ‘Mr.Killian’ is his dad.
This is as much a captain cobra fic as it is a captain swan one and it has a lot of Daddy!Killian feels (the three best things ever to write tbh, probs why this is so long. Also ‘cause it’s a modern AU and I always make those super long)
Rating: FF (Freaking Feelsy)
~17,700 words (so outrageously long wow)
As head of the Books and Manuscripts Department in the New York division of Gold’s Auctioning House, Killian Jones understood the charm of ancient letters, the allure of rare books filled with secrets never spoken aloud. But dear god, the amount of money people were willing to spend for a scrap of Jane Austen prose was frankly absurd.
What would they even do with it, he often wondered. Would it be proudly displayed in their living room amongst other flauntings of their wealth, both intellectual and monetary? Would it be used to brag to their friends about the exclusiveness of the item? Or would it be appreciated as it should be, used as a reminder of days long gone, of a lifetime of an extraordinary woman and writer, of a pillar of English history and literature?
Being an English Literature major, Killian perfectly understood the latter. The former, however…
But this was Gold’s Auctioning House and his boss surely wanted the influx of money to be as big as it could get, wanted people to bid and fight in a direct battle against one another, transcending the actual estimated worth of the object and assuring the Auctioning House as much profit as possible.
It strayed far from Killian’s own ethics, the principles and good form brought to him by his older brother and ingrained in his being, but he was surrounded by literary treasures, was expected to keep them safe. Besides the rich, pompous atmosphere that clung to the walls and customers like a sharp perfume, he adored his job. This was what he was meant to do.
“Henry! No! Stop!” a female voice yelled.
A form, which Killian assumed was the Henry that needed to stop, flew along the archives and came to a halt right in front of him. It was a child with brown hair swept across his forehead and big brown eyes. His small chest slightly heaved with the running he had done and his eyes looked at him with something between wonder and fear.