"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Emma says, not-so-silently cursing her friend, David. She is standing outside of the Student Center in front of a table with a large "Register to Vote Today!" poster hung awkwardly on a stanchion to the right, voter registration cards nowhere to be seen. So much of volunteering...
"How am I supposed to do this without actually registering people?" she texts him in annoyance, wondering idly if she could hide out in the coffee shop down the street and pass that off as volunteer hours. The coffee shop is air-conditioned, and it would allow her to put on headphones and ignore the world around her as she attempts to study for her upcoming Russian Lit. midterm that she knows is going to kick her ass. It would be better than what she's doing now, standing outside in the blistering heat in a futile attempt to register voters.
Checking the time on her phone, she decides to give David five more minutes to solve her predicament – after all, he's the one who dragged her into this – before bailing on the whole endeavor and skipping off the aforementioned coffee shop for some iced coffee and cold air. Two minutes into her self-imposed time limit, she receives a text from her friend with his own version of a game plan.
"Don't worry! Killian is on his way with the cards and stuff."
She rolls her eyes at his response. Killian Jones is on his way. Though she's never met Killian, she's heard quite a bit about him. He's in a service frat with David and quite a bit of her friends, the one that Emma refuses to join principle. ("I don't care that it's a co-ed service club, it still has Greek letters, so I'm not doing it.") According to her friends, Killian throws wild parties, with the last one being busted by the cops…twice. He's apparently quite the flirt, or so that's how Ruby and Elsa both tell it. He's also British, or at the very least has a British accent, that is "delightfully sinful" per Tink, and Graham claims he's great at darts and cheats in poker. Honestly, Emma is a little bit surprised she's never met the guy up until today, because of the way their friend groups appear to orbit around one other. Of course, every time they've gone out with him, she's turned down their invitations for one reason or another. ("It's just going to be full of your faux-Greek friends talking about faux-Greek things," was her last excuse.) She's honestly worn it as a bit of a badge of honor: Here is Emma, the girl who hasn't met Killian Jones.
Except that badge is now being revoked, or will be once the infamous guy shows up.
While waiting for Killian Jones to arrive with whatever one needs to register to vote, Emma checks her email. To her surprise, her afternoon Psych lecture is cancelled due to the professor's wife finally going into labor. This means that she will have time to actually enjoy lunch after this volunteer gig is over, instead of having to wolf something down in the fifteen-minute break between leaving her and running across campus to the Psychology building.
She really, really wishes that she hadn't agreed to volunteer today. It's too hot and too close to midterms, and her period is being especially awful today. But she needs the volunteer hours for her Community and Leadership Development class, and this is far more convenient than hiking out to the humane society or food bank. It had been David's idea that she join in on his frat's voter registration drive, and though she's never exactly been civically minded, it had sounded like an easy gig at the time. Except that she now can't register any voters considering she has no materials with which to do it.
"You're club is really unorganized,"she texts David, pointedly not adding an emoji to convey her own level of annoyance. She doesn't expect a response. Judging by the time, David will have just started his Political Theory class, and he's the type of guy who doesn't text or idly surf the internet during class. He's the type to take notes with pen, and then ask thoughtful questions, instead. Overachiever.
"Excuse me, lass, but I presume you are Emma Swan?"
Emma is startled out of her increasingly murderous thoughts centered on David Nolan by a smooth, accented voice. She turns to answer the person, but the words die in her throat when she sees Killian Jones standing before her, the box of voter registration cards and pen in his hands. She's seen enough pictures of Killian to know that he is objectively an attractive man. He fits the tall, dark, and handsome cliché perfectly. However, the Instagram photos and snaps taken by her friends could never prepare her seeing the man in person. He is absolutely gorgeous.
"Um, yeah. Killian, right?" Emma asks, recovering none too quickly. If he notices, he doesn't show it. Instead, he drops the box to the table with a loud thunk. Emma takes one of the pens from the box, twirling it around her fingers. "So, this is all I need?"
"Aye, well, half of it, at the very least. The rest of it will go to the table by Chem-Phys," Killian answers as he removes papers, pens, and clipboards out of the box, organizing each into neat piles. His hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes, but he makes no effort to move it. "You know how to register voters, yeah?"
"Um, have them fill out the form correctly, don't pressure them to register for a specific party, and don't steal their identifications. Can't be too hard, right?"
Killian looks up at her, briefly dumfounded by her semi-flippant answer. He quirks an eyebrow, and then smiles at her. "Aye, when you phrase it that way, I suppose not."
It's his turn to surprise her when he scribbles down ten digits on a spare sheet of paper and hands it to her. It's a phone number, his if Emma were to guess. He confirms it a moment later.
"Text me if you need anything. I have to take the rest of these over to the other table," he tells her, and Emma thinks she sees something like disappointment flicker across his face. She tells herself that she had just been seeing things, making up feelings in her head. He nods at her before turning away back to the heart of campus, "It was lovely to finally meet you, Emma Swan."
He whistles as he walks away from her, and Emma thinks that maybe, just maybe, she isn't imagining things after all.
-/-
It's not twenty minutes before Killian is back again, this time two cups of coffee in his hands. He passes one two her, informing her that the Zeta Betas were giving away free cups on his way over, and he thought she might like one. Show frowns at the "Casey for President" logo printed on sleeve, bemoaning how no good things are truly free. She appreciates Killian's gesture, though.
"No cream, I'm afraid," he tells her. Killian digs through his pocket to produce a few packets of sugar. Emma smiles and thanks him, pouring three of the packets into her cup. His eyes widen at her brazen display of her sugar addiction, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he settles into the empty seat next to her, and goes for the singular completed form she's been able to get since he's left. "One registered voter, Swan?"
"Hey, I tried, but no one is interested," Emma lies. Well, it's only a half-lie, a half-truth, really. She hasn't really been trying to register voters, instead manning the table and looking like she's doing something. But it's not as if she's turned anyone away. No one has come to the table, so it's not like she's exactly to blame. "Besides, it's not like it's an election year."
"Your congressional district is voting for it's representative. This town is voting on its mayor. Just because the president isn't at the top of the ticket, doesn't mean it's not an election year," Killian counters, suddenly serious. Emma winces, because he's technically right, and she hates to be wrong.
"What's a British guy like you care about American politics?" Emma asks, half-teasing and half-serious. Despite all their friends knowing him, she's never heard the story of why their accented friend was in the United States.
"Would you believe me if I said that I am also an American?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow and throwing her a bemused grin. "My mother is from Wells, not to be mistaken with Wales, mind you, but it's this lovely place in England, and my father is a jolly old American. From Boston, I think. The bastard bailed on us when I was young, so my memory is a bit foggy."
"Oh." Emma doesn't know how to respond to that, so she doesn't. Instead, she takes a long drink from her coffee. She's shocked about how open he is about his own skeletons in his closet, because she most certainly isn't. She prefers to keep those locked away. She's talked about her past to a few people – David, Mary Margaret, and Elsa – but she could never imagine being so free about it. It's sort of inspiring hearing Killian talk about it in such a nonchalant manner.
"I could be British, or Spanish, or even Swedish, maybe," Emma says suddenly, feeling emboldened by the man next to her. He looks at her, confusion written across her face, but stays silent, imploring her to continue and explain without words of his own. "You see, um, well I was found on the highway when I was a baby. Middle of nowhere Maine with no one around, except just me and baby blanket. So for all I know I might not even be American."
"Are you attempting to one-up my tragic backstory?" he asks, eyes widening and gasping in mock indignation. He then pauses and cocks his head to the side as if in deep thought. "You know, were you in a comic book, that would make the ideal origin story. Tell me, Swan, are you hiding any superpowers behind those pretty green eyes of yours? I've seen a few pictures of you with dark-rimmed glasses. Just who are you?"
Emma ignores his obvious flirtation, as well as the potentially unintentional confession that he might have stalked her online profiles just as she has done him, and focuses on the topic at hand. "Are you accusing me of being Superman?"
"Perhaps," he says with a shrug, and she laughs at that because he is acting so completely absurd in a way that none of her friends had warned her about. "All I'm saying is that a baby on a highway sounds highly suspicious. You could be from another planet. I would avoid kryptonite, if I were you."
She laughs again, if only because it is easier to do that than admit that he's somehow managed to get her pegged within an hour of knowing her. When she was younger, she would often imagine that she was a princess sent from a faraway world for her safety and crash-landed somewhere in Maine.
Unfortunately, that is not the case.
"Lucky for you, buddy, I'm just plain old Emma Swan," she tells him, hiding her expression behind her coffee. Unwilling to allow him to control the conversation – and flirting – she decides to have a little fun, as well. "Otherwise, I'd have to kill you or something for figuring out my secret."
"Kill me? A simple mind wipe would suffice, don't you think?" Killian teases as she shakes her head, the laughter returning. "Of course, were you to wipe my mind, I would forget finally meeting you, which is something I've been wanting to do for quite some time."
"Oh really?" Emma hopes the flush in her cheeks isn't too obvious. Judging by the triumphant glint in his eyes, it unfortunately is quite apparent.
"Aye, lass, really. We share enough friends for your name to have come up in conversation once or twice. A man gets curious," he tells her. "Surely, you've thought the same about me."
"Mmmm, no, can't say that I have," she lies, unwilling to give him that ego boost. Per earlier conversations with her (their?) friends, she's already been warned that it is quite inflated. Talking with him now, it's pretty clear that they had actually been downplaying the state of his ego. Surprisingly, however, Emma isn't turned off by it. Instead, there's something attractive about his self-assurance. But it doesn't prevent her from having a little fun with him. "I do, after all, know your reputation."
Killian perks up at that, interested in what others have been saying about him. "And what, pray tell, is my reputation, lass?"
"That you are a flirty, party boy with good aim and also who cheats are cards."
"Well, close, but not entirely correct," he tells her. "I'm a devilishly handsome, flirty, party boy with good aim and who also cheats at cards. There's a clear difference, I'll have you know."
He winks at her to drive the point home.
"You're really full of yourself, you know that?" Emma asks, and before he can respond, someone comes up to fill out a voter registration form. She and Killian stay silent after that, both watching awkwardly as the girl in front of them scribbles down her information.
"Thanks, love," Killian tells the girl when she hands the form over. When she walks out of earshot, he comments, "Oh, pity, she's a Republican."
"David's a Republican," Emma offers up, not really sure why she is defending the girl. It's not as if Emma falls anywhere on the Republican side of the American political spectrum. Maybe it's because she enjoys needling the man next to her, and enjoys the light in his eyes when he gets particularly excited about something.
"Dave's a git."
"He's your friend."
"I say it with love, darling," Killian responds, and he does this thing with his tongue in the corner of his mouth that's positively obscene. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it when his phone buzzes on the table, indicating an incoming text message. He swears after he reads it, "Unfortunately, Swan, I'll have to cut our conversation short. It appears that a particularly grumpy anarchist is loudly protesting the other booth. I do so apologize."
He bows to her – literally bows – after he stands. After he walks away, Emma can't help but feel a bit sorry that he's leaving.
-/-
Barely fifteen minutes pass before he's back at her table again. During that time, Emma has managed to register thirteen new voters. She's quite proud of herself for that, especially since she actually made an effort to reach out and talk to passers-by instead of blatantly ignoring everyone who's walked by her table. As much as she is loath to admit it, her newfound exuberance for registering voters comes in no small part in proving to Killian that yes, she can do this. It annoys her just how quickly he's been able to get to her. It annoys her more with just how much she likes it.
"Impressive," he tells her as he thumbs through the pile of voters. "Maybe I should leave you to your devices more often."
Please don't, she thinks but doesn't say.
"How's the anarchist?" Emma asks instead. She notes how he picks up one of the pens and spins it around the fingers on his right hand, his left otherwise occupied with the registration forms. He's a fidgety person, Killian Jones, and is another new fact that she's learned since meeting him.
"Gone," Killian answers, deliberately vague. "He had a lot of moxie, I'll give him that. Sort of reminds me of me when I was a younger lad."
"You were an anarchist?"
"Not precisely, no, but I did go through this phase where I 'raged against the man' as it were. Still do, but in my own ways. Far less flashy, a little more under the radar," Killian replies in such a way that Emma can't quite tell if he's being serious or not. "Besides, considering my brother is in the Navy, it would be best if the younger of the Jones Brothers weren't getting into too much trouble. I owe him that."
"You sound like a good little brother."
"Younger brother, not little," he corrects, and Emma smiles, because it sounds like such a little brother thing to say. He flushed a bit, and does this thing where he scratches behind his ear. "And I'm not the best brother. I don't want you to get any ideas."
Emma can tell she's hit a sensitive topic, one even for him, so she makes an effort to steer the conversation away. "So is it your job to ferry between the two tables putting out proverbial fires?"
"Aye. This is technically my event, so I must see to it that this ship sails smoothly, as it were," Killian says as he settles into the seat the he once previously occupied. She doesn't fail to notice when he scoots it closer to her.
"Mary Margaret's right," Emma teases, recalling an earlier conversation with her roommate, "You do use a lot of boat metaphors."
"Oh, is that part of my reputation?" Killian leans closer to her, and Emma can almost feel his breath fanning across her skin. He suddenly moves away, stretching in his chair and pushing back so he can rest his ankles on the table. "It's no cause for concern, mind you. I grew up on the sea, for the most part, so the 'boat metaphors', as you call them, come quite easy."
"So you're a English and American dual-citizen – "
" – a devilishly handsome English and American dual-citizen. You can't forget the devilishly handsome part, Swan."
" – whose mother is from Wells, not Wales, grew up on a boat, and is now running a voter registration booth in the middle of Maine," Emma says, rolling the words around her tongue as if trying to get a handle on the person who is very much, and yet nothing at all, like the man she had previously been envisioning. "You're quite the character, Killian Jones."
"And you're Superman, Emma Swan," Killian replies, staring at her in way that makes her feel as if his intense blue eyes are somehow boring into her soul. "Not a great Superman, mind you, because Superman would remember that I'm a devilishly handsome character. Bad form, love."
Emma supposes it's equally bad form to nudge the feet to his chair, effectively knocking him to ground, but she does it anyway. He hits the floor with a small thud, and the look he gives her is priceless.
"You know, your friends didn't warn me about how mean you are."
Her eyes narrow at that. "My friends warned you about me?"
"Aye, Swan, I'm not the only one with a reputation," Killian winks at her as he rights himself, sitting the chair upright and sliding back into it.
"What did they say?"
She hates that her voice sounds so small, and that she can feel her stomach drop at his insinuation. Though she knows it isn't intentional, his comment hurts a bit. She realizes on an objective level that it's unfair of her to tease him about his own reputation, and not be able to take the same needling from him. Still, the idea of her friends talking behind her back isn't a happy one, no matter what they might have said about her. She knows its natural for friends to talk – they do the same with Killian – but his comment hits on some longstanding insecurities of hers stemmed from bouncing from foster home to foster home, never knowing if she truly belonged or was wanted.
"Nothing bad," Killian answers. He raises both his hands, the universal sign of 'no harm intended' and replies, "I do mean it, love, everything I've heard about you is glowing."
"That's a lie, and you know it."
"Well, I might have heard that you're a bit prickly, but considering you just knocked me flat on my ass, I can't say that's far from reality," he tells her, and his lips quirk into some sort of cute half-smile. Sensing that humor might not the best approach, he continues. "Really, Swan, our friends adore you. Truly. I can't lie about that. I wouldn't have been so eager to meet you if that wasn't the case. I'd been hedging the meet you for the past few weeks, but you're never around."
He's being honest this time around, that much she can tell. It's written all over his face and in his too-blue eyes. She silently curses herself for being hurt so easily, how simple, teasing statements could drudge up old feelings. It's a little bit embarrassing too, letting a near stranger see her so flustered. But Killian doesn't seem to mind it, instead he seems so understanding about the whole thing. It's as if he knows how she's feeling, and - oh.
"Um, our friends adore you, too," Emma tells him, suddenly feeling guilty. "They don't just see you as a flirty, party boy type."
"Ah, but do they think I'm devilishly handsome?" Killian asks, waggling his eyebrows. She knows he's obfuscating his feelings, so she doesn't push, and instead plays along.
"David most especially."
"Pity for Mary Margaret if that's the case," he responds, and they laugh together. Of course, sharing a dorm room with Mary Margaret, Emma knows just how much David Nolan is into her roommate. She's been sexiled more and more lately, much to her annoyance. It would be worse if they weren't so perfect together. Killian sobers first, and he looks at her seriously. "I truly appreciate your sentiment, Swan."
"Yeah, well, I'm not totally mean."
"No, no you are not."
-/-
The end of her volunteer shift comes far too quickly. Killian has long since dropped the pretense of checking up on the table across campus outside of the Chemistry and Physics building, not leaving since his run-in with the self-proclaimed anarchist. Instead, he stays and registers voters with her, not that they spend too much time on registering voters, preferring instead to trade stories about classes and collegiate life.
"So then he says, 'If I had to choose between heaven and hell, I would choose hell, because it is warm and there are sluts.'"
"Seriously?" Emma asks between fits of giggles, unwilling and unable to believe his story about one of his History professors.
"Emma, would I lie?"
"Well, you did tell me you majored in History because it is your life goal to get a PhD and hire a small Asian child to follow you around shouting 'Dr. Jones! Dr. Jones!'" Emma reminds him, struck with the thought of Killian dresses as Indiana Jones. It's not a terrible mental image, actually.
"I think that is a perfectly acceptable life plan," Killian argues in mock offense as Emma shakes her head.
To be honest, Emma hasn't had this much fun in quite awhile. Just talking with Killian has been enough to clear her head about midterm anxiety and period cramps, and she doesn't really want it to end. "So, you're stuck manning the booths all day?"
"Aye, not that I'm doing a particularly good job of it," he says, once again scratching behind his ear. In the two hours of her shift, Emma's begun to realize it's what he does whenever he's feeling particularly nervous or bashful about something.
"The other table hasn't gone in meltdown mode yet," Emma reminds him, pointing to his phone that's only received few texts since he permanently joined her, with most of those being David checking in between classes. "Um, so, my afternoon class has been cancelled. So, I can stay if you need help. I wouldn't want to leave you in a lurch."
"I need quite a bit of help," Killian says quickly. He doesn't quite meet her eyes when he says this, both knowing that he's not exactly being honest. Not that she cares, because she really wants to stay. It's easier to pretend this way, that she's just helping him, rather than wanting to spend more time in his company. She thinks he feels the same way.
"Maybe, after, we can get dinner in the cafeteria? I have an extra meal swipe, so it's yours if you want it. Voter registration can work quite the appetite."
"I would like that very much, Swan."
They both trade smiles, suddenly bashful and blushing. She doubts this fits either of their reputations, but she doesn't care. She's enjoyed her time learning about Killian, even if it does annoy her a bit that her friends never introduced them to one another sooner. Despite their delay in meeting, Emma can say this: she's pretty sure she has a date with the devilishly handsome Killian Jones.