It all begins at one of those happy hour networking events that Mary Margaret had insisted on dragging her to at some bar called the Mad Hatter not far from Dupont Circle. Emma doesn't outwardly question why the Anacostia schoolteacher would be insistent on coming here, but she suspects it has something to do with the Hill staffer she's been seeing for the past few weeks. Her suspicions are proven correct when David waves them over, a wide grin blooming on his face when his sees them.
David's a nice guy, legitimately nice in a way that Emma doesn't totally believe isn't a fantasy. He also doesn't seem to be one of those Hill guys who are putting in their dues for another rung higher, but rather working because he's one of those people who believe in good government in the idealistic, The West Wing sort of way. Because of this, Emma doesn't mind playing wing girl to Mary Margaret, who truly believes she has found her Prince Charming. Mary Margaret's been practically a saint to Emma for the past few years, so it's the absolutely least Emma could do.
It doesn't change the fact that she hates these sort of events. Networking has never really been her thing, and she absolutely loathes the forced small-talk and interaction. Living in DC, it's a constant stream of "What do you do?" and "Where do you work?", and the moment anyone finds out you're not connected to K Street or the Hill, their eyes glaze over in disinterest. Which sucks, because as a bailbonds person, she has some pretty interesting stories to tell.
Despite living here for six months, Emma can't quite tell if the constant networking happy hours are part of the culture of the city, or just something Mary Margaret foisted onto her to make her acclimation easier. Emma reasons it is probably a mix of both, but she hopes their frequency will die down once her friend stops playing mother and caring host – not that Emma doesn't appreciate everything Mary Margaret does. She more than appreciates it.
When Emma called after things went south with Walsh, Mary Margaret didn't hesitate to offer space in her apartment. Sure, Emma had lived in Boston at the time, but there was something to be said about starting over. Besides, it felt nice living in a place where she knew she'd never have to see that asshole's face again. So she packed up her admittedly meager belongings – one of the many points of contention between her and Walsh – and ran all the way to the nation's capitol.
Most would probably call what she did a cowardly move, but those people don't know Emma. Running has been her modus operandi for as long as she could remember, from the foster families who didn't want her, from the sense of abandonment she still feels when she thinks of the family who left roadside.. Really, leaving Boston and her asshole ex was the most natural conclusion for her to make. At least this breakup didn't end in jail time, so not the worse for her. Besides, all the rankings call DC one of the most transient cities in America, so it's sort of comforting to Emma that many of its inhabitants just come and go.
She just wishes the city didn't come with its own set of assholes that she came her to avoid.
She's gone on a few dates since moving here, the first one being three months ago after both her roommates had insisted on her doing something other than drowning herself in booze and Rocky Road ice cream on Saturday nights. Ruby, her other roommate, had set her up with her girlfriend's co-worker, a lobbyist who focused on the agriculture industry. Straw-haired and lanky, he wasn't her usual type. They met at an admittedly good restaurant, Founding Farmers, and started with drinks. Unfortunately, after fifteen minutes into the date, Emma had realized he was brainless in all matters not farming subsidies, and she had cut their dinner short.
Sadly, that night had been the highlight of her DC dating experience thus far. One guy had spent thirty straight minutes talking about himself, not asking Emma one question. Another had made an offhand comment about not trusting anyone who attended a state university, and had scoffed when he realized that had Emma only has an Associate's.
The guy she's talking to now, some staffer named Frederick, is easy enough on the eyes, but he keeps talking and talking about the gold standard, and though Emma tries to listen, he's just so boring. He also keeps sneaking glances to a blonde at a far away table, which is more than enough of a red flag for Emma to quickly exit the conversation.
Unfortunately, her hasty retreat results in Emma accidently slamming right into someone not three feet away, his drink spilling all over her white blouse.
"Fuck," she swears, grimacing both at the beer stain over her front and the chill of it as it seeps through her bra.
"Fuck," she swears again when she looks up to see the bright blue eyes and handsome face of the man she just ran into.
Emma knows if Mary Margaret were remotely paying attention to anything other than David's smile, she would swear that this was one of those romantic comedy "meet cute" moments. As such, she is currently living in her own fairy tale, leaving Emma to face the cold, hard reality that is her standing before a very attractive man whilst drenched in his beer.
"Apologies, lass," the now beerless man says, unintentionally forcing Emma to re-evaluate her previous line of thought. She isn't standing before a before a very attractive man whilst drench in his beer. She's standing before a very attractive British man whilst drenched in his beer.
"Fuck," she says again for good measure, mostly because she can't think of anything else to say. She's never been one with words, especially after she's either drank a few cocktails, physically discomforted, or around a particularly beautiful man. In this case, Emma is all three.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the attractive British man does have a way with words, or rather he's quite quick-witted, because the next thing he says is, "Normally, I wait to discover a woman's name first, but if you insist on fucking, then I am putty in your lovely hands."
That snaps Emma out of whatever "attractive British man" curse she had fallen under, and she quickly wraps her arms around her front, covering bother her chest and the stain.
"Seriously?"
"Well, you are the one that just said 'fuck' thrice, love. A man's mind naturally jumps to conclusions. Apologies, milady." The main raises his hands in apology, but judging from the way his tongue sneaks out of the corner of his mouth, Emma things he is anything but sorry.
Normally, Emma would respond with a smartass remark, but considering the circumstances, she relents. Besides, she's just hears him apologize twice in a span of a few moments. That has to count for something, right? That being said, it doesn't prevent her from deflecting the conversation, of course, to a topic other than fucking. "I guess I should be apologizing too. I did sort of force you to spill it all over me."
"Thank you, but rest assured, love, things worse than a pretty lass have caused me to spill my drink before." He waves her off, facing transforming into a wide grin. It's a good smile, Emma thinks, noting the crinkles that form in the corners of his eyes.
"Yeah, well, it's still not my finest moment." Emma says with a shrug, because the situation still feels slightly embarrassing, even if the guy she's talking apparently doesn't see it as such. Tearing her eyes away from the man, she looks down at her shirt and grimaces at her liquid-soaked top. "Anyway, it looks like my night out is cut short, so, uh, sorry again about the drink."
Moments ago, this would be the type of moment Emma would be praying for – a perfect excuse to get the hell out of this bar and back home to the comfort of her pajamas and ice cream. Now, however, looking into this stranger's blue, blue eyes, a part of her wishes for just a bit more time.
He seems to be thinking similar thoughts, because as she turns to leave, he hooks an arm around hers, drawing her back to him. "Before you go, love, I do believe you owe me a beer."
It's the second partially infuriating thing he's said in the five minutes that they've known one another, and though Emma is somewhat grateful for the excuse to spend more time under the gaze of this man, she still rolls her eyes. "Really?"
"You are the reason I am without drink, love," he responds. He sways side-to-side, raising one eyebrow in a silent challenge to get her to stay.
He's just given her the excuse she wanted, a perfectly acceptable reason to stay. It would be so easy to say "yes" and walk with him to the bar, make up for her clumsiness, and flirt over their drink orders. One drink would turn to two, and two would turn into the exchanging of numbers, or if she's feeling potentially good, an uber ride home with him.
But that line of thinking leads to just as many red flags as the men before him, just for completely different reasons. She thinks of the Walsh and Neal, and how she's just starting to get settled into this place. So Emma Swan does what she does best – she runs.
"Sorry, but I really need to get home and change."
She partially expects him to challenge her, try to further convince her to stay. It's what other guys have done in the past. Instead, however, he releases her arms and steps back. He nods at her, face masking any disappoint with a look of understanding.
"As you wish."
Emma walks away, feeling his intense gaze boring into her back. She finds Mary Margaret, still caught in happy conversation with David. Both look appropriately sorry to see her go, but Emma knows they are caught up in their own little world to really miss her. She bids them farewell, feeling a warm bubble of happiness for her friend. Emma might like to run, but she's grateful Mary Margaret doesn't need to.
Just as she's about to leave, the bouncer stops her. Confused, she is shocked when he hands her a business card. "A man at the bar wanted me to give this to you."
Glancing over her shoulder, Emma locks eyes with the attractive British man. He nods at her before turning to the bartender to place a new order. Feeling butterflies in her stomach, she runs out the door, practically tripping into more incoming patrons.
It isn't until she is settled on her red line train the Emma manages the courage to look ate card that she had shoved into her pocket. It's the back she notices first, the handwriting surprisingly elegant for what she knows was a hastily written message.
"If you ever want to pay me back the beer," she reads, and his cell phone number follows the invitation. Thumbing over the corners, she flips the card to read the name: Killian Jones.