a/n: A repost off of tumblr that I wrote a while ago, based off a prompt I saw floating around

Can you come pick me up? May have been drinking and may have also punched out a guy for talking shit.

She gets the text at 2am, and in her hazy, disorientated state, the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, "Jesus Christ, I am going to fucking murder you." Of course, it's useless because she's in her room, alone, like a sane person and not out gallivanting like one Killian Jones.

If that guy didn't punch you back, I swear I will.

Didn't know you preferred your men with scars, love.

She can hear the infuriating lilt in his voice and see the smirk, the glimmering arrogance that nestles into his eyes every time he uses a line to tease her. God, he gets on her nerves. But, he's also her best friend – has been since their college professor decided to pair them up for a terribly boring English assignment. And she knows for a fact that, despite the Irishman practically oozing male bravado, he needs her more than he'd ever be willing to let on; especially ever since his brother, Liam, passed away a year after graduation.

Shut up, Jones. Where are you?

The Rabbit Hole.

By the time he replies, she's already started her car and buckled in her seatbelt. The things she does for this man.

When she reaches their local bar (they live in a small town, there are only two bars), he's sitting outside on the curb. She watches a grin tug on his face as the car nears him and she feels butterflies flutter in her stomach. This is new – these feelings she's developed for him. It's only been a few months but ever since she started looking at him in a different light, every little thing he does seems adorable to her. Kind of like the way he lazily stands when she gets out of the car (his hair is so terribly messy and she just wants to run her fingers through it) with a sheepish smile on his face (his cheeks are so red, and she wonders if it's because he's embarrassed or because of how much alcohol he's had – she chooses to believe the latter).

"You came," he says when she's standing in front of him, trying her best to glare him down. (It's not working.) (He can see right through her and it annoys her to no end.)

"Of course I came, you idiot," she fixes him with what she hopes is a strict gaze, "Now, do I need to talk to someone? How are you not in jail or something?"

"My savior," he smirks as he sways into her a little. (Her heart does not speed up at their growing proximity.) "Don't worry, Swan, I took care of it," he brings his hand up to scratch behind his ear – a gesture she's come to become so very fond of.

She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. "Alright, come on, Jones. Let's get you home."

He's uncharacteristically quiet in the car, thumbing at the sleeve of his leather jacket absent mindedly as he stares out the window. She's seen him drunk before, she's seen him completely slashed, and he's always more wilder, more talkative, more willing to take on the world (she recalls the aftermath of a college party in which he'd climbed on top of a table and made a heavy speech about climbing the bloody Everest, Swan! You know we can do it if we try! – the memory always makes her grin.)

"Hey," she says quietly, glancing over at him as she catches his attention, "What's on your mind?"

He flashes her a wide smile and a "Nothing at all, love," but she knows him better than that. She's seen that smile a number of times, the one that covers up what he really wants to say. It slightly pains her because he never uses that smile with her; always uses it in the company of those that he's too cautious to let his walls down around.

She parks the car under his complex and unbuckles her seatbelt, turning in her seat to face him. If he's stuck here with her, he has no other choice than to spill his guts, providing he doesn't fall asleep on her, of course. Which, by the looks of his lazy movements, might happen sooner than later.

"Jones, cut the crap," she huffs at him, "What's really wrong?"

"Swan, it's nothing," his eyes are downcast and he's not even trying to smile anymore and God, there's a knot forming in her stomach that she doesn't know what to do with.

"Killian, seriously, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

He catches her gaze immediately and holds it with such intensity that she feels like kissing him. (Who is she kidding, she always feels like kissing him.)

"I'm sorry I woke you," he says so softly that she's sure she would have missed it if she'd even so much as sighed. He looks down at his hand again – the one that made contact with some guy's face, the one that's torn at the knuckles and maybe they should be tending to that before she interrogates him but she can't shake off this feeling that she needs to be there for him right now emotionally rather than physically. She shakes her head.

"That's why you're so upset? This isn't the first time you've woken me at such an ungodly hour, you know," she says lightly, trying to get him to crack a grin. But he doesn't, he just slowly looks up at her once again.

"I know, lass. And it really isn't fair on you to keep babysitting me like this," he shakes his head frustratedly, "I promise I won't bother you next time." He turns to open his door but she grabs his arm and pulls his jacket sleeve slightly in hopes to get him to just sit and stop being so ridiculous.

"Killian, I'm not babysitting you, I care about you. I wouldn't drive out here at 2am for just anyone. You're never like this, where is this coming from?"

"I – just –," he lets out a deep breath and shuts his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them, she sees the fog that seemed to be covering his bright blues begin to lift ever so slowly even though he refuses to make eye contact. "Some drunk git at the bar asked me what it felt like to be so bloody broken," he spits the last word out like venom. Broken. He's always hated that word. In between losing his parents, his brother, and his first love, he came to despise the thought of being compared to fine china. She knows it's why he huffs out his chest a little more than he used to, why his smirks are more coy and his flirtations more constant.

She sucks in a breath and takes his bruised hand in hers. "You know you can't believe what some stranger says, that's no reason to – "

"No," he interrupts, "I didn't punch him because of that." She furrows her brows and stares at him in confusion. He sighs, "I socked the arse because he said he'd be willing to take you off my hands once you left me, that he knew he'd please you better." Her grip tightens on his hand. He punched a drunk asshole because of something he said about her? "He wasn't wrong, Emma, I know you're not going to be around forever, but the thought of some bastard laying his hands on you I – I'm sorry."

She sits there in stunned silence. Not only did her best friend punch a guy because he was seemingly disrespecting her but he's apologizing for it? She feels his self-loathing come off in waves and surround the little space between them, almost making it too hard to breathe.

She remembers a conversation they'd had after he got into a fist fight following his brother's death. How he'd cradled a bottle of alcohol on the bathroom floor of his apartment that night until she'd found him and held his shivering form in her arms. How he'd seemed so small, whispering his fears of becoming like his drunk punch-thrower of a father.

She sees the same look in his eyes now and moves her hands to cradle his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Killian Jones," she starts softly, "I am not leaving you. Not now, not ever. And don't you dare apologize to me for what you did."

"But, Swan –"

She crashes her lips into his, swallowing his words of defense. It takes him a moment to respond but when he does, he's nipping and sucking on her lips with a rapid and eager rhythm that makes her dizzy. His one hand is tangled in her hair while the other is pulling at her waist to bring her as close as he possibly can. She tastes the rum on his tongue and she wonders if it's possible to get drunk like this – on him.

When they finally part, their foreheads remain touching and his eyes are slowly fluttering open. "That was…" he whispers, and it sounds completely wrecked.

"Long overdue," she laughs out.

He mutters something like "you're telling me" and then he's kissing her again, this time slower and gentler and she savours every moment of it, cataloguing each movement of his lips on hers for later. Because, hell, she knows she'll be replaying this in her head for a long time.

"We better get you to bed," she mumbles when they come up for air.

He cocks a sly eyebrow and grins at her. "Planning on joining me, darling?"

She laughs all the way upstairs to his apartment.

(She bandages his hand while he plays with the ends of her hair, and she can't help but grin at his childish act.)

(And despite his insistence to continue what we started, love, he's out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.)

(She brushes the hair out of his face and places a lingering kiss on his forehead, causing him to stir.)

("Stay," he murmurs in a rough voice.)

("Always.")