A/N: Apologies. This is not a new chapter of Harsh Realms. For whatever reason, this wanted out of my brain first. This little two-shot is loosely inspired by the Frank Turner song of the same name. It was conceived at 4am during The Great Fanfiction Dot Net Outage of 2015, and was half-written into the notes app of my phone, where I promptly forgot all about it, until now.
They say to write what you know, and I know how to pour a middling scotch, deflect come-ons from middle aged men, and spot an intoxicated person at 50 yards. And then there is my undeniable fondness for scruffy guitar gods. This seemed like the logical marriage of those two aspects of myself. Enjoy.
Part One
He's no Bob Dylan.
And yet, Emma still found herself pausing from where she was cutting up lemon slices to watch the band of the evening close out their set with an energetic rendition of Baba O'Riley. The scruffy frontman was in top form, positively growling out the lyrics into his microphone, and pulling out some very Eddie Vedder-esque moves with his mic stand, much to the delight of the front row. Then just as they descended into the final chorus, he threw his mic to his bassist, downed the last of his tumbler of rum, and leapt right out into the crowd. He was grinning wickedly as he surged forward, held aloft by a sweaty, heaving mass of fangirl adoration, his arms raised in a jubilant V.
It was very rock n' roll.
It was also very against the house rules, something Emma had specifically reminded them before soundcheck, as she'd gone through the usual security rundown with both the band and their manager. A little fact Scruffy Guitar God clearly remembered, because when he lifted his head a moment, and saw her standing there on the other side of the bar, arms crossed over her chest and looking thoroughly unimpressed, he winked one of those baby blues at her, and blew her a kiss.
Ugh. Musicians.
She really hoped August wouldn't find cause to rewind back the tapes for the night, because that was a fuck up Emma did not want to be held responsible for. She wasn't prepared to lose her job over the rum-fueled punk rock heroics of an Englishman with guyliner, no matter how hot he was.
His lyrics were simple. Punchy. Catchy punk rock anthems which oscillated between self-deprecating tales of love gone wrong, and odes to living a better life. And though he might not have been saying anything new, she couldn't deny that his band had... something. A something that had managed to pack her bar to capacity on the coldest night of the year so far, and sell them out of their entire stock of Corona in two hours flat. A something that had captured the gathered crowd from the very first chord, and held them firmly in the palm of his hand for the entire duration of the show, his pack of loyalists screaming every word back to him.
He's no Bob Dylan. But unfortunately, he was good.
Storybrooke, Maine wasn't exactly a common stop on the touring musician route, seeing as it was about as far north as you could get without a passport, and best renowned for freezing rain and a distinct lack of anything approaching culture. Most bands didn't make it further north than Boston, or Portland if you were lucky. And The Rabbit Hole, Emma's place of work, usually erred on the cover band side of things to liven up the odd Friday night. There was a Neil Diamond impersonator, for instance, who lived locally who did pretty well with the over 50 set.
Which is to say, Emma had no idea how a punk rock outfit out of London managed to not only find themselves in her tiny town in the first place, but also to drink her completely dry of Captain Morgan in a few short hours. It was something she intended to clear up with their manager before he could sneak out into the night. He looked the type. But the takings had been good. Better than good, even. She had no idea where all of those people had even come from, but they'd turned out in droves. If the band hadn't taken all the rum and disregarded her security protocols, she might have been tempted to invite them back.
Last call had been and gone by the time they were almost done packing up, leaving just a few of the band members and their various hangers-on, as well as the familiar form of the town drunk, Leroy, who was slumped over on his usual bar stool, waiting on one of his poor, put-upon brothers to show up and give him a ride home. Emma was just checking through the initial receipts when she heard the tinkle of coquettish laughter, and looked up to see him again.
The bartender has two natural enemies: glitter and lipstick. Both cannot be removed by your standard industrial dishwasher, and if you're unlucky, and Emma always was, you'll still be finding traces of them weeks later, whenever it is most inconvenient. Run into the hot Sheriff whilst you're scouring the ice-cream freezer at the store? There's a random piece of glitter on your face. Scary town mayor comes in for her customary glass of the expensive Merlot you keep in the back just for her? There's a perfect red lip outline on her glass.
The universe deemed it to be so.
The girl that was busy hanging off Scruffy Guitar God's arm, eyelashes all a-flutter, was that rare double-whammy; her lips were coated with enough to silver glitter lipstick to make Lady Gaga proud. If she stood in the middle of the dancefloor and rotated, she could double as a disco ball. Emma despised her on principle. That, combined with the memory of the crowdsurfing incident, and the distinct lack of rum left in her bar may have made Emma a little sour on them. Just a little. So when the girl took time out from her busy hair-tossing and giggling schedule to approach Emma's bar and ask for a glass of water, Emma felt justified in fucking with them. Just a little.
"Wow," Emma leant forward to whisper in a conspiratorial way, motioning back at the guy currently pretending he wasn't checking on the state of his hair in the bar mirror. "Is that...?"
"Killian Jones!" The girl practically levitated as she squealed out the words. "I know! Isn't he gorgeous?!" Sure, Emma thought. If narcissism and guyliner were your thing.
"Good work," Emma winked, as she slid the glass of water over towards her. The girl tried and failed at not looking like the cat who got the canary, blushing a deep scarlet. She gave the girl a moment, before flipping the switch. "I'm kind of surprised though."
The girl's smile faltered a little. "Surprised?" She asked, taking the bait. Emma really was a terrible person.
"Yeah, I could have sworn he swung the other way, if you know what I mean..." Emma plastered on a look of bored indifference, as she started placing the last of the wine glasses back onto their rack.
"Killian Jones?" Glitter Lips let out a disbelieving cackle. "Yeah, there's no way he is anything other than 100% straight. I mean, have you heard his music?" Not until tonight.
"Well," Emma reasoned, "People used to think Ricky Martin was straight... Although that one seems so obvious in retrospect...With those teeth..." She could feel her audience losing focus, so she leaned forward again, as if delivering the juiciest gossip she's heard in years. "All I'm saying is, our bar-back caught someone in a compromising position with the drummer in the green room, and it sure as hell wasn't the bass player."
The Rabbit Hole didn't even have a green room. Hell, they didn't even have a bar-back. Just Emma. And Ruby, when she decided to show up.
Emma was going to hell.
Glitter Lips absorbed all of this with a frown forming. "Oh," she said finally, her tone clipped. She glanced back at her expectant beau, who was still fussing with his hair, trying to perfect that 'just rolled out of bed' look, an action that seemed to take on new significance in light of this new information. "I see."
"Just wanted to give you a heads up..." Emma murmured as the girl nodded absently, gliding away looking like Christmas had been cancelled. Emma took the opportunity to shield most of her body from view behind the register as she watched the fallout of her dark machinations.
It was every bit as satisfying as she had hoped for. Glitter Lips's firm goodbye and speedy exit. Scruffy Guitar God's look of utter disbelief as he stared after her. A revenge plot well-executed. That is, until he swiveled his head around, and fixed those eyes determinedly on Emma, who was still wearing something of a triumphant smirk.
Shit.
And he was approaching fast, all steely-eyed swagger. Emma hurriedly turned her attention back to the register, scooping out a handful of quarters to arrange into dollar sized stacks on the counter.
A small cough sounded. The clearing of throat. "Excuse me, lass." His speaking voice was just the same as his singing voice, lilting and way too easy on the ears.
Emma didn't lift her eyes from her stacks of coins, as she counted them out, four at a time. "Sorry, busy," she said quickly, not sounding sorry in the least.
Undeterred, she saw him lean into her peripheral vision, lowering his voice. "What exactly did you say to her?"
"Who me?" Emma asked with as innocent a tone as she could muster, glancing up briefly.
"Yes, darling. You," he drawled, leaning on the bar with his elbows, and one eyebrow cocked.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Emma replied, still letting the coins in front of her occupy the most of her attention. "I'm just closing up."
"And Denial is not just a river in Egypt." Emma looked up at him properly then, dropping the last of the coins onto the counter. He didn't look mad, exactly. There were none of the tell-tale signs of anger Emma had come to expect from people before they exploded. No clenched jaws or clenched fists. No tension in his shoulders. No throbbing forehead veins. He hadn't come over to chew her out. Or at least, he didn't seem to be. If anything, he seemed... amused?
"You mean Glitter Lips?" Emma relented, just a little.
He let out a soft chuckle at Emma's made up name for his date. "Aye. That'd be her." His smile was rueful. "Glitter Lips. Any idea why moments after speaking with you she decided to flee the premises as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at her heels?" It hadn't been that dramatic. It had been more of a power-walk, if anything.
"I'm a terrible conversationalist?" Emma offered, holding her hands out as if she was confessing to a serious crime. Scruffy Guitar God liked that, if his reluctant grin was any indication.
"So I see," he said, tapping his chin with his fingers. "But why do I suspect foul play on your part?" He let a pointed finger trace the air between them, indicating all of Emma's suspicious aura.
"Maybe you're just not trusting enough?" Emma countered. She was definitely going to hell.
He paused for a moment, as if giving that idea some thought. "No," he answered finally, threading his hands together to support his chin, as he leaned on the bar with his elbows directly in front of her. "That's not it."
He was persistent. She gave him that.
"Well, I have to finish locking up now since I'm the only one who bothered to stick around until closing, and I need to settle your rather extensive bar tab with your manager before he makes a break for it. So you can either accept that you will be spending the night without a bedazzled groupie, or you can't. Either way, I'm busy."
And if he had anything to say to that, Emma didn't stick around to find out, sweeping the rest of the coins into a plastic pouch, and taking off into the back room.
He was still there, sitting on the cinder block retaining wall just outside the main doors when she emerged forty minutes later, bundled into her parka, having finally balanced the registers, put the cash in the safe, and gone over every surface in the place with Spray Kleen. He was wrapped in a long black leather jacket that clearly wasn't suited to the weather, and his teeth were chattering.
The sight of a stranger lurking around after close would usually have Emma reaching for the pepper spray, but even in the dim glow of the security lighting, he cut a rather pitiful figure, a huddled black shape against the white of the falling snow. Still, she placed her keys between her fingers, just to be on the safe side.
"Uhh..." Emma paused, letting him notice her standing there. "The bar is closed. In the immortal words of Semisonic, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Unless your intention is to turn into a human popsicle?" It had to be below freezing, and with the cold wind blowing off the Atlantic, he wouldn't last out there for long. Not with that jacket.
"Ah." He got to his feet then, stamping his boots on the spot in an effort to stay warm. "I was waiting for you, lass."
"Me?" Emma clutched her keys tighter in her fist, but he didn't step any closer.
"Aye. You. The bartender with the heart of gold who is now responsible for the predicament I find myself in."
Emma's stomach dropped. "And what predicament is that?"
"The one where I'm stranded outside of your bar in the middle of a fucking blizzard because you scared away my last chance for a warm bed for the night." His tone was light and breezy, but his expression was deadly serious, his blue eyes unblinking. Emma fumbled with her keys, feeling the shame beginning to warm her cheeks despite the cold.
"That sounds like a problem your manager could solve," Emma murmured, avoiding his eyes.
"It does, doesn't it?" He grimaced. "Only my bloody manager only booked the one room at the inn for five lads to share, because he's a cheap bastard, and our bass player snores. Nearly as bad as our manager does. I would literally rather freeze to death."
"Your van?" Emma offered as a last resort.
"Otherwise occupied. My drummer and your bartender. The brunette?" Fucking Ruby.
"So you want me to do... what exactly?" Emma asked, although she already had a sneaking suspicion she knew.
"You must live around here." He opened his arms wide to indicate the uninterrupted expanse of white. "There's no car in the lot. Let me stay with you." A pause. A fluttering of lashes that was frankly, beneath him. "Please?" His tongue darted one to slide over his bottom lip, and Emma watched its progress with a kind of stupefied amazement. He really was pulling out all the stops.
"How do you know my husband isn't coming to pick me up?" Emma replied haughtily, crossing her arms against her chest.
He held his left hand up, and wiggled the second-to-last finger. "No ring." The observant idiot didn't even have gloves on.
"I'm not in the habit of inviting strangers back to my place."
"I'm Killian Jones," he said at last, holding out a hand, as if expecting Emma to shake it. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd shaken hands with someone under 60.
Emma snorted, ignoring his hand. "Yeah, I know." She lifted her chin, indicating behind him, where a row of posters bearing his name and visage had been tacked on the wall near the entrance. Killian Jones & The Dashing Rapscallions. Clearly humility wasn't part of the marketing strategy.
"Right," he grinned, running a hand through his snow-flecked hair. "And you are?"
Emma thought about not giving him the satisfaction. But it really was so fucking cold just standing there.
"Emma."
"Well, Emma," he said, smiling with triumph despite the fact that his lips seemed to be turning blue. "It seems we aren't strangers anymore. And deep down, you know you owe me one. All I require is a little bit of couch space. Maybe a blanket, if you're feeling charitable..."
"You could still be an axe-murderer," she hedged, her attention focused on her boots now, as she compacted the snow around her into a neat semi-circle. "Or a Republican."
He snorted. "Would you prefer to read my Wikipedia page first? Or do you require a detailed questionnaire on my political affiliations? Because, I have to warn you, I'm freezing my bollocks off out here."
Emma's head snapped up. "You have a Wikipedia page?"
"Aye," he chuckled. "Why do you think Glitter Lips was so eager to keep me warm on this cold, cold night? Everybody likes a romp with a rockstar." His tone was a lot more bitter than Emma would have expected from the guy with the apparent narcissism.
"Fine." Emma relented, blowing out foggy breath of defeat. "You can stay on my couch. But there will be no romping! And I will need to see this alleged Wikipedia page."
It was amazing, the transformation in him, upon learning that he would not, in fact, be perishing in a Maine snowstorm after all. His entire face lit up, and he straightened to his full height, pulling out his phone from his pocket and making a few taps, before holding it out to her with a dangerous grin.
Emma took it, and turned it around to read the screen. It was his Wikipedia page, complete with date of birth and accompanying photo. Son of a bitch.
"After you, Emma."
