A/N: September is CS AU Month in Tumblr, and I came up with this idea that honestly wouldn't leave me alone! This is totally different from the other story I'm working on in terms of atmosphere, style and everything, but I'm really proud of how the first chapter turned out, so I hope you like it too! Also, many thanks to my soulmatey Carmina (gaviotica31) for providing me the cap I used as the Story Avatar :)
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Her hand reached out from the warmth and comfort of her covers to strike the snooze button of her obnoxiously loud alarm clock. She missed it.
"Fuck," she groaned, trying again, and throwing the contraption to the floor in the process. It kept ringing. In her still sleepy dazed state, she recalled an episode of her favorite sitcom where a fire alarm kept beeping incessantly even after the protagonist had completely dismantled it. She was sure her alarm clock was from the same company as that fire alarm.
Not being able to take the violence-inducing sound any longer, she hastily got up and turned off the alarm button. She gave a glance at the green numbers. 2:05 PM.
Damn, she hated getting up early.
She shuffled to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and the bag with her cleansing products – soap, loofa, moisturizer, and such – from her vanity and then spent an awfully long time under the spray of lukewarm water, shaking off the last of her sleepiness. Her stomach rumbled, but she knew that if she ate anything too heavy now, she'd have a hell of a stomachache all day. She actually enjoyed her weekend job, but unfortunately her biological clock hadn't adjusted to her work hours yet.
She had got home from work at about 8:30 in the morning, practically sleepwalking among the dozens and dozens of energetic and alert people on the street, starting with their daily activities. She would have loved to have slept a little longer but today her shift started an hour earlier, so she'd have to be leaving for work in about five hours.
Another disadvantage of her weekend job: it took all of her fucking time.
She worked as a bartender in one of the hip pubs downtown, only a twenty-minute walk away from her small apartment. It was the kind of places that served as a mixture of bar, restaurant and night club: people usually started coming for their after-work drinks, then stayed and had a pizza or a burger or any other junk food in the menu; and around midnight or one in the morning, the tables were cleared out and set aside, leaving a huge dance floor that would soon be full of bouncing guys and girls already tipsy and getting drunker and drunker until the wee hours of the morning. The combination seemed to work; they always had full house since she had started working there seven months ago. Despite how well Emerald City was doing, the manager didn't seem to make enough money to hire more personnel. Thus, she had to work almost 12-hour-long shifts.
Still, she didn't complain that much. The money was good and the tips were very generous – especially when she wore a low-cut shirt, and when she succeeded in keeping her anger management issues under control. The first time a pissed costumer had made a move on her, she ignored him as long as she could, until the guy reached out and actually grabbed one of her breasts, so she slammed his head against the bar. To this day, she didn't know which angel was on call that night because she didn't get fired right there and then, as she had almost expected. Maybe it was because her boss had loved the cocktail she had made for him when she'd applied for the job – her own creation that consisted in vodka, rum, some grape juice and a few leaves of peppermint –, but, anyway, she was glad. There weren't many good jobs you could get when you didn't have a high school diploma.
That's what you get from living in the streets at sixteen, she thought as the glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and proceeded to undo the knots in her damp hair.
Emma Swan had not had the easiest or prettiest of lives, but she wasn't one to mourn in the past. She knew it did no good to do such thing, so she moved forward. Forward was all she had.
She had to learn that the hard way, but she also had to admit that that life philosophy took her to where she was now, the most stable and also the safest phase of her life. After an unfortunate encounter with the law caused by another even more unfortunate encounter with the man that healed her broken heart only to shatter it even more, she had decided to start from scratch, to do things the right way, to earn what she had. So she sold her old yellow VW bug – not exclusively for the money; it was part of the starting-over-with-no-looking-back plan – and took whichever job she could. Sooner than she expected, she was able to rent the apartment she was still living in. Nothing too big or fancy, but it was in a relatively nice neighborhood, close enough to downtown Boston, and it was more than enough for her.
Apart from bartending in the Emerald, Emma gave classes in a big gym. Her kickboxing and self-defense classes were particularly popular, so the income was really good. One of her students, a short woman in her thirties with a friendly face, told her once that all the women in her office had taken Emma's class and praised her superb low-kick techniques. Well, after being bounced around foster homes like a rubber ball all her childhood, living what she sometimes called the 'selfish Robin Hood' kind of life (robbing from the rich but keeping it to herself) and spending almost a year in juvie, she had learned one or two tricks. And she was more than happy to put a good use to them and share her wisdom with women to help them defend themselves in case they were attacked by low-run creeps on the street or shitty husbands. Plus -she had to face it-, all that workout also gave her a smoking hot body.
Yeah, at twenty-three, life was finally starting not to suck that much.
Putting an end to her deeply philosophical mental ramblings, Emma turned on the coffee machine and went to check her phone. A couple of her students asking if they could go to her 6 PM kickboxing class on Monday instead of the 3.30 PM class, her boss reminding her that she had to be at the club tonight at 7.30 sharp, and an ad text from her phone company offering a discount sale. Yeah, she probably had the worst social life ever. But it was better this way. No need to get burned just because. She was fine just by herself.
Emma poured some coffee in a mug and mentally chastised the tiny voice that scoffed in her head.
At twenty past seven she was already in the "staff room" of Emerald, safely storing her purse and leather jacket in a locker and doing a last-minute check on her hair and make-up. Nothing too fancy, but appealing enough to grant her some nice tips for the night.
"Looking as stunning as ever, Miss Swan," said Graham's reflection in the mirror which she was using to place a couple of bouncing curls on her shoulder in a strategically careless way. She smirked at his reflection and turned around to face his flesh and bone self.
"I could say the same for you, Mister Humbert," she replied, shaking her head in amusement and leaving for the front of the club, her co-bartender following closely behind.
As its name suggested, the Emerald City decor theme was heavily influenced by the Wizard of Oz. Emerald green panels in the walls, paintings of red poppies hanging here and there, a yellow brick road leading to the ladies and gentlemen's respective rest rooms. Far from tacky and childish, the result was elegant and kind of homey. Thank goodness Emma was allowed to wear her regular clothes and not forced to dress up like the Cowardly Lion.
The bar area was actually formed by two concave counters opposed to each other, forming big oval eye-shaped structure. She and Graham stepped inside it through a small door that joined the two bars together and then he locked it to prevent future drunken costumers from going to their side of the bar. The "Eye", as they called it, was located towards the back of the establishment. Usually, Graham dealt with the 'eyelid' that faced the dancefloor while Emma managed the one in front of the more private section of the place; although at some point of the night they would switch places.
She was crouched, scanning the counters behind her bar and mentally checking that every bottle, glass and drink mixer was in its place when a deeply accented voice called her from above. "Rum, please."
As she conveniently had the bottle of rum right in front of her, she grabbed it before standing up and preparing the drink from the costumer.
"There you go," she said, handing the glass to the man and finally lifting her eyes to take a look at him.
She almost dropped the glass.
Well, holy fuck.
Working in a fancy club and in a gym, she'd seen plenty of hot guys –hell, she'd been working with Graham for a long time and even though she was never interested in dating him, it was undeniable to the objective eye that the man was quite frankly a hunk – but the only way to effectively describe the man in front of her was sex on motherfucking legs. Messy dark hair, striking blue eyes under thick eyebrows, wide lips curved into a tiny smirk and surrounded by a carefully trimmed scruff.
"Thank you, lass," he said, taking his rum from her and still smirking.
Probably at Emma's dumbstruck expression. Way to go, girl. Come on, think fast!
"Lass? This is the States, you know," she commented casually.
Smooth. Four for you, Emma, you go, Emma.
The stranger chuckled before taking a swig of his drink. "Old habits die hard, sweetheart. I may have lived here for years but I'll always be an Irishman at heart."
"Huh." It was all the answer she could come up with. She looked around the club to see if there were any other costumers she could deal with, but it was too early and there wasn't any people on the bar except for the Irishman and a couple of girls Graham was talking to behind her. Normally she'd stay there and make small talk to the guy, serve him more drinks and attempt to get a higher tip, but her natural urge to flee from people who potentially could do her no good kicked in as soon as she saw the guy's face. She had the feeling he'd be trouble.
"You don't have to worry about me, lass, I'll behave," he said with a wink, taking her out of her reverie.
"What?"
"You want to go away; I can read it all over your face. I swear I don't bite...much" he added the last word in a husky voice before bringing the glass to his lips once again.
"And what makes you think you know me so well?" she asked, attempting to sound stern but not rude and failing, but he wasn't offended anyway.
"I have an ability to read people. And you, my dear, are quite an open book."
"You don't say." She raised an skeptical eyebrow.
He opened his mouth to reply when a group of four boys and girls in their early twenties occupied the stools next to him and signaled for Emma. She shot a small smirk to Irishdude and went to get them their orders. After they left the bar for one of the mahogany tables by the wall, Emma turned around and saw that the man was still sitting in his spot, looking at her intently.
"What? Something on my face?" she asked, approaching him and refilling his glass.
"No, I was just admiring the way the green neon light reflects on your face," he said, cheekily.
"Yeah, right," she muttered, concentrating on placing the glasses under the counter in a perfectly straight line even though they were okay before. Anything not to look at his amazing eyes.
"Really," he insisted, "you looked lovely."
"If you say so," she conceded, shaking her head. It was a habit she had grown accustomed to when someone complimented her in any way. She always felt she didn't deserve it.
"May I ask you your name, lass?" he asked after a few moments of silence.
"You may, but that doesn't mean I'll give it to you," she smirked at him. He looked surprised for a few seconds before grinning at her.
"Tough lass," he praised. His eyes found hers and she found herself unable to look away. There was something in his blue irises that called her in, made her want to lean in...
"Need a hand, Emma?" Graham's voice came from beside her and she felt strangely irritated, as if he had interrupted something extremely important. Then she saw HotGuy direct a wide smirk towards her and she felt even more irritated: Graham had involuntarily divulged her name and she had lost the extremely fleeting upper hand in their silly banter game.
"Fuck you, Graham," she muttered, and the guy on the other side of the counter laughed heartily.
"What did I do?" her coworker asked, extremely confused.
"A favor to me, mate," he answered. "I just asked her her name and she refused to say it."
Graham eyes turned to Emma, who was glaring daggers at him, and sent her an apologetic smile. "Oops."
"Nevermind," she said, dropping the subject. She turned to the other guy. "Another one?"
"Always," he said, pushing his empty glass towards her for yet another refill.
"More people are supposed to arrive soon," Graham said, looking at the door and the clients than every now and then stepped in. It was still a little early. "The new band Mr. James hired is performing tonight. If it goes well, they'll be playing here every two weeks, or once a month."
"That's right, I totally forgot," Emma said. Their boss had, in fact, mentioned that there would be a new musical number every other Saturday in order to attract a wider range of customers. "What was the name of the band again?"
"Actually, I think it's just one guy and his guitar."
Emma scoffed. "Please don't tell me that James hired a Kumbaya-singing hippie."
"What's wrong with Kumbaya?" RumDrinker –she was coming up with quite a repertoire of nicknames for him– asked, amused with their exchange.
"Nothing," Emma said, rolling her eyes at him. "It's just that a guy and his guitar a la MTV Unplugged is more like a coffee house thing, not a dance club on Saturday night."
He shrugged. "Guess we'll have to wait and find out." He put a fifty dollar note on the counter. "Keep the change, love." She could see the white flash of his teeth when he smiled at her before getting up and disappearing among the growing crowd.
The next couple of hours were pretty uneventful. Apparently the word had spread about this singing guy, because soon enough the club was almost full and there were lots of new faces, especially squealing girls who barely looked legal and pretended to be liquor know-it-alls by ordering random drinks without even asking what they had in them. Emma didn't care, though; she prepared the cocktails and tried not to laugh at the girls' cough fits when they took longer swigs than recommended. It looked like it was going to be a good night.
At around ten, she saw a couple of the staff guys dressed in black t-shirts and pants setting up a microphone and speakers on the stage area. The crowd noticed too, as they started moving closer to the stage and shooting glances at the empty space there every now and then. Emma wasn't really paying attention to it, as the bar was now full of people looking forward to starting their journey to Wastedland. She heard the roar of applause that signaled that the singer was on stage, but she didn't look up as she was busy preparing a piña colada.
"Thank you!" said the male voice on the microphone, and she almost dropped the bottle of rum she was pouring in the tall glass.
It was his voice.
She finished the drink and accepted the money. Once the costumer left the bar, her eyes shot up to the stage.
He was there, red Stratocaster hanging from the black strap wrapped around his shoulder, looking extremely sinful under the spotlights, and sporting a wide, smug, shit-eating grin. Directed specifically at her.
Son of a bastard.
"My name's Killian Jones," he addressed his audience, and on cue, shrilling girly squeals filled the whole venue. He chuckled lightly. "Thanks for that. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm Killian Jones and I'll be playing for you tonight! I've heard here and there that a guy with a guitar is not fit for this kind of places, what do you say if we prove them wrong?" Another round of applause, and Emma's jaw dropped so violently that if she were a cartoon, she would have smashed it against the ground.
The nerve of him!
"How do you like the Stones?" he asked the audience, and after the agreeing sounds they produced, he nodded, smirked and the first notes of Start me up filled the place.
She didn't actually see him perform, because she was too busy giving Graham a hand in the main bar and serving drinks on her own side of the 'Eye' (and maybe, maybe, because she was afraid he'd catch her eyes on him and send him another self-satisfied smirk or even an insinuation). However, she still could hear him.
Emma had to admit, obnoxious and full of himself as he was, he really could pull off the single-guitar gig without any kind of other accompaniment.
And his voice.
Holy mother of all that is good and pure, his voice was like velvet, smooth and so fucking sexy. It was really unfair that he had the looks and the voice and the musical talent. Well, at least he was still one of those narcissistic bastards with an oversized ego.
About an hour later, the show was coming to an end and the audience begged for an encore. "Thank you!" Killian said. "Now, to close the show, here's a little improv I want to dedicate to a very feisty, opinionated and beautiful lady. You guys are an amazing audience, thank you all so much and goodnight!"
With that, he started to break into a rock and roll rendition of Kumbaya. Emma's anger management problem was on the edge of relapsing. She saw Graham trying to suppress a laugh and sent him a killing glare that got him sobered up instantly. Good boy. He knew what was best for him.
This Killian guy, however... He had called her beautiful on stage (because it was beyond obvious that the encore was exclusively for her, which also caused her heart to do an unfamiliar flip in her chest that she refused to acknowledge), but if he was attempting to win her over, song-mocking her was definitely not the way to go.
The song ended and he left the stage, but the screams and all the applause lasted quite a bit longer. He had charmed the place alright. Which meant her boss was probably going to hire him permanently.
Fuck me sideways.
The stage got cleared out and soon after the electronic music became louder and the lights dimmer, and little by little groups of people started moving to the tunes in the middle of the dancefloor.
"So what do you say, love? Too coffee-house-like or do I fit in?"
How did he even manage to sneak right in front of her among all people crowding the bar?
She shrugged, indifferent. He only chuckled. "Are you ordering something or what?" she said finally.
"Do I have to order to occupy a spot on the bar?" He smirked at her raised eyebrow. "A Cuba Libre, please."
She set to prepare the drink, shaking her head in tune with the song playing in the background and purposefully ignoring him. "Here."
"So, did you like the show?" he asked, locking eyes with her. She was surprised to see that, for a moment, she spotted genuine curiosity and maybe a hint of anxiousness in his too-blue eyes before it was gone.
"Sure, it was awesome. I especially enjoyed how you called me out in front of the whole place –and not only once– and practically made fun of me."
His carefree, conceited face fell. "Come on, love, you know I was joking, I didn't mean to offend you," he said, eyes wide with concern. But then again, he seemed to wake up from whatever trance he was under and the ever-present smirk was back in place. "Besides, it's not that anyone would understand those references besides you and me."
"Not true. Graham could," she stated, pointing at her coworker with her head.
"And just how much does his opinion matter to you?" Her eyebrows rose again, shocked as she was with his sudden mood swings. Was he...jealous now?
"It doesn't, I was just pointing out that other people caught that reference, too."
He didn't answer; instead, he finished his Cuba Libre and paid her for the drink. He got up to leave, but suddenly he turned to her and stared at her with the most honest expression she'd seen of him during the whole evening and smiled softly at her.
"Listen, I know this is a bit of a long shot, but...would you like to go out, some time?"
There were literally dozens of excuses Emma could use right now.
Thanks, but I have a boyfriend.
That's really sweet, but I play for the other team, if you know what I mean.
Look, that's really nice but you're probably going to play here often and I don't want to mix work with my romantic life.
I'm just saving the unavoidable hurt and bitter aftertaste after the whole thing imminently goes to waste.
Instead, what came out of her involuntarily-curved-upwards lips was a whispered "Yes".