just-be-magnificent:

from under the ground → by @caprelloidea

“You’re not alone, Swan,” Killian tells her, across time and space. He’s
being ridiculous, he knows. She’s dead, and he is nothing but a scribe
with a sordid past. He’s alone in the wreckage of plane from the
twenty-first century, nursing a bottle of weak and fizzy rum, watching
the bioluminescent plants flare to life under the burgeoning starlight,
while the lady Swan haunts him from within a dusty old player. Before
her breath can even out, and she can say what else is on her mind,
Killian pauses the recording, and allows silence to settle. Were she
before him, he could duck his chin and soften his expression, entreat
her to reveal herself, or at least convince her she’s not alone, as he says…

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