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Graham was so tired of Killian rick-rolling them that he was ready to pull his hair out. Killian’s hair to be exact. Rip it out from the roots, so the smug bastard would look like a bald eagle instead of as hot as he thought, and spoke aloud at every chance that he could, he was.
He started to mumble, “Hot shit Communications Professor with a terrible talent for making me watch that damn music video that I can’t stop humming while I’m grading papers or reading my books...”
Emma found him this way, bent over his desk so far that his head was practically touching the beige covering of his desk. He was still cursing Killian with every horrible word he knew. As an English Professor and former sheriff, he knew so many more than he should.
She hummed the same damn song under her breath. He perked up at the sound, and twisted his head over his shoulder to look at her, crossed arms and tired expression. Most of all, she had a grin that was pure hellfire.
“He needs to be stopped,” she said.
As the only ones home, it was their civic duty to end the madness once and for all. Graham had the printer at the ready, and Emma had her laptop in hand as they hashed it out.
Notepad in hand, Graham sketched the scene. Killian was going to regret his entire existence when they were through.
--
It was with a pep in his step that Killian arrived at home. He unlocked the door and the wafting scent of chocolate chip cookies with a hint of cinnamon greeted him like a warm welcome. His favorite.
He didn’t know what he had done to warrant this truly wonderful bounty, but he didn’t question it. Walking to the kitchen, he curtailed his enthusiasm to an appropriate degree just in case Ruby was the one who had baked them. He didn’t want her to get a big head about her talents, of course. If there was going to be an egomaniac in their house, it was going to be him.
Emma would say that was nothing to be proud of. Graham and Ruby would agree.
Killian would grin unabashedly because they were always at their cutest when they were all, including himself, in agreement. He would tell them so too, but they wouldn’t believe him. As if he would lie. He was a gentlemen, first and foremost. Gentlemen didn’t lie unless they needed to, and he had never needed to lie with them.
The first sign something was terribly wrong was when he rounded the corner into their kitchen to find the picture of him and Graham. Glued to the fridge with their Garfield magnet, it was a sight that he always enjoyed – him and Graham fresh faced and so youthful, arm in arm at the Sheriff’s station. Now it was defaced. Where Killian’s face should have been, Rick Astley took his place, expression caught mid song. It was horrible. It was awful.
He groaned and swiped a hand across his face as if that would erase the sight. It was only going to get worse.
Looking out from between his fingers, he eyed the cookies resting on the stove warily. On top of the delicious looking pile was a note. He could just barely make out the writing until he moved closer.
Happy hunting. The music started then. On a loop that left his head spinning, Rick Astley sang, “You know the rules and so do I.”
“Bollocks.”
It wasn’t just payback. It was war. Killian was besieged by the enemy with no hope of survival. His only chance was to wave the white flag of surrender.
He’d only taken the first step out of the kitchen when the music changed.
“A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of,” played over and over again.
Killian had no chance.
With his luck, if he had made it to their room fast enough, they wouldn’t have had a chance to play anymore.
He made it to the staircase only to be distracted by the framed picture of him during his boxing championship, the one that had netted him the Intercollegiate Boxing Championship that he was so proud of. Instead of him taking out Black, with his atrociously ugly beard, it was Rick Astley attempting to dance over Blackbeard’s flying form.
It was horrible. It was awful. He was so offended.
In the background, Rick sang, “I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling, gotta make you understand.”
Killian felt that on a spiritual level. He was going to kill them. When he flew past the photo and up the stairs, it looked like Rick was actually dancing.
At least the next part that played as he scaled the steps two by two was a full verse instead of one line repeated.
We've known each other for so long
Your heart's been aching, but
You're too shy to say it
Inside, we both know what's been going on
We know the game and we're gonna play it
It was his own fault, he knew. But damn, it was killing him to be on the receiving end of it. Literally killing him because the music was so loud, he thought his brain might pour out his ears to the rhythm of the song.
The last verse that played as he approached Graham’s room, all the way at the end of the hall (he’d completely bypassed Emma’s room because she wouldn’t be there; she was the mastermind after all) was, “And if you ask me how I'm feeling, don't tell me you're too blind to see.”
Killian was not blind, but he sure as hell wished he were deaf, especially when he opened the door and Graham and Emma sang, as badly and loudly as they could, the goddamn chorus.
“I hate you,” he cursed and walked over to the desk to turn off her blasted laptop.
Not only did she eat the damn canary, but she’d swallowed its family whole too by the look on her face when he turned to look at her.
“How in the hell -”
“Spy cameras confiscated from Ruby’s students.”
Killian nodded. For some reason none of them had yet figured out, her students had a habit of setting up spy cameras in her classrooms. It had become a chore to them, checking the rooms once a week to make sure that more hadn’t been installed and tracking down the culprits. Graham’s history as Sheriff helped give it weight and Emma’s imposing aggression set all the perpetrators on the straight and narrow.
“Photoshop work by yours truly,” Graham said with a dark grin. In his hand were the original photos which Killian quickly snatched only to realize there were more than the two he had seen. He would need to fix every single picture of him in their damn house (and there were so many).
“Are you proud of yourselves then?”
He looked between the both of them, Emma seated on the desk with her legs crossed over Graham’s shoulders and Graham slouched in his chair. He had his pen tucked behind his ear like he was just taking notes. Goddamnit, he had probably timed and detailed every reaction Killian had to this fiasco. In all likelihood, this would show up as a prompt on his next take home exam:
Killian Jones, Professor of Communications, assaulted by repeated verses of Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up. In 600 words or less, describe how you would envision this occurring.
Hint: Description and evoking visuals are key. Feel free to attach a graphic or image that fits your essay.
He stepped forward until he had his knees pressed against the chair between Graham’s spread legs. “Well, are you?”
Emma’s smile was devastating. “Pride doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Let’s just say -”
Emma reached over the desk to Graham’s iHome speakers and hit the play button. Over the speakers, a recording of Emma and Graham sang, “Never gonna give this up, you’re never gonna live this down, we’re never gonna run around and forget this.”
“I fucking hate you all.”
“Now, that’s not nice,” Ruby said behind them. Distracted by Graham and Emma’s awful singing, he hadn’t even heard her approaching heels like he normally did. He turned. She had her coat slung across her folded arms and her lips curled up in a small smile.
“I don’t hate you, dearest Ruby. I know you had no part in this.”
He looked at her with hope in his eyes.
Ruby killed it with a toss of her hair.
“Of course not. I’m not stupid enough to open any of your emails.”
He hated them all with every fiber of his being. Especially when Ruby threw herself down on Graham’s bed, kicked her bright red heels on to the floor, and hummed along to the beat of the song as it played again.
He even hated them when they were all piled into his bed in their Christmas PJs because it was cold in the house and no one could be bothered to go to the basement and adjust the heat. Because they sang the song to him like they meant it and he knew that they’d caught him out. They knew that with every email he had sent with every coded link, he had meant every word of that stupid song every single time.
(It didn’t stop him from sending out a new song in his next email bombs, but well, he liked the game more than he hated them.)
--
What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.