A/N: This is an idea that I just couldn't get out of my head, so I finally wrote it. This is unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine. I'm planning on there being three more parts to this series.
This work is T rated for curse words and LOTS of alcohol consumption. Some references to smut occurring off-camera, but no actual smut.
This is s'posed to be a party, right? So why's no one dancing? Not that Killian is much of a dancer himself, but it seems like a bloody waste of perfectly good music and a dimly lit room. Maybe it's just the copious amounts of rum buzzing through his veins, giving him ideas. Or maybe it's the way Milah subtly and sensually moves her shoulders and hips to the beat as she leans over the laptop serving as DJ to adjust the playlist.
Milah is off-limits, she's married for fuck's sake - not that that had been a problem those two or three (or four) times she'd pulled him into a dark corner of the library to pin him breathlessly against the stacks. She's older than him, a quote-unquote non-traditional grad student, which basically means that you've had a bit of a life before burrowing back into academia. She's also brilliant and passionate and beautiful, and Killian had fancied himself in love with her until one day - right before finals, mind you - she'd cut him off. She'd told him it had all just been a fling for the semester and she was going back to her husband.
She'd made her decision, and Killian respects that. But, the semester is finished, exams are done, and everyone is here to celebrate, so what could it possibly hurt just to ask her to dance? How much trouble could they get into with thirty-odd of their friends and classmates around to supervise? S'fine. Just a dance.
He takes one last swig of his rum and Coke, and attempts to set the red plastic cup on some surface that he vaguely thinks is a table. He misses, and the cup hits the floor with soft thunk, but who cares, really? Was empty anyway.
He saunters over to Milah, turning her toward him with a hand on her hip. She raises her eyebrows at him, seeming amused for some reason, and he gives her what he believes to be his most tempting smile. "Wanna dance, beautiful?"
Her expression turns from amusement to mild annoyance, and she leans toward him to whisper, "Killian, we're in public. Besides, we decided that-"
"You decided," he corrects with a fleeting scowl that turns rapidly back into a smirk. "But I'm just asking for a dance, darling." He runs a knuckle down her bare arm, and she closes her eyes briefly, sighing at the contact. "This is s'posed to be end of exam revelry, innit? Let's revel," he wheedles, flicking his tongue suggestively on the final 'L'.
Milah shakes her head. "Why don't I go get Smee to give you a ride home? Looks like you've reveled enough for the evening."
Killian rolls his eyes in exasperation, then leans his face closer to hers, flicking his gaze down to her lips and back up. "You're no bloody fun, love."
Milah steps back and crosses her arms, scanning the room. Apparently finding what she'd been looking for, she cuts her eyes back to Killian. "Well, if you're so dead set on dancing, why don't you go ask Emma over there? She looks like she could use a friend."
Killian furrows his brow, turning to look where Milah is indicating. "Emma? Who's Emma?" Squinting through the fog of rum clouding his vision, he sees a glow of blonde hair and long, fair legs barely covered by the tiniest hint of a skirt. Hmm… Maybe this night isn't a complete loss after all.
It takes him a few more seconds of gazing across the room at Emma before he realizes Milah is still talking to him. "…transferred in this semester, and doesn't know many people yet. You should go talk to her."
"Aye. Maybe I will." Without looking back at Milah, he runs a hand through his dark hair to make sure it's artfully rumpled, and swaggers over toward Emma. Well, he hopes it still counts as a swagger if you stumble a bit, but some bloody idiot left a damn cup on the floor.
When he reaches her, she's chatting brightly to a dark-haired lass with a pixie cut. "Killian…" The brunette looks him up and down and raises her delicate, if judgmental eyebrows. "You look-"
"Devilishly handsome?" he cuts in with a wink. "Why thank you, Mary Margaret."
Mary Margaret presses her lips together and shrugs. "I was going to say 'three sheets to the wind.' But, sure. That other thing, too." She turns, uncurling one finger from long-neck bottle in her hand to indicate the blonde next to her. "Have you met Emma Swan?"
Killian grins roguishly and takes a moment to get a better look at the woman before him. Up close, her golden hair glints like a candle's flame in the dim living room, her fair skin glows like the moon, but her eyes… He's never seen the like. Green as emeralds and just as sparkling. Wait. Is that sparkling with laughter? What's funny?
He hears Mary Margaret snicker beside him. Oh, bollocks. I've been standing here staring at her like a mouth-breathing idiot. Shite. S'alright. I've got this. He clears his throat, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth. "Beg your pardon, Swan, but your beauty left me momentarily speechless."
She - Emma - smiles at him, and he manages to recover his trademark smirk. Suave. Nice recovery. "But where're my manners? We haven't been formally introduced. Killian Jones." He extends his hand to her, and when she takes it, he raises her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. He lowers their hands, but keeps them joined. Unable to take his eyes off of hers, he asks, "Now, would you care to dance?"
An adorable flush creeps across her cheeks along with a bemused expression. Her lips part, and Killian watches mesmerized while she licks her lower lip as she considers his offer. Finally, she nods with a small upturn of the corners of her mouth, and Killian releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Sure," she replies. "Why not?"
Still holding her hand in his, he walks her to the small open space serving as a dance floor and they join the handful of other couples that are now jostling and gyrating to the pulse of the music. She moves stiffly at first - hesitantly, he thinks - as if she's afraid to really let herself go. But as the music slows, he takes her by the waist and pulls her closer. She melts against him, her arms loosely draped around his neck, and together they sway, lost in the moment, in the alcohol and in each other.
As the song ends, there is a sharp slap on Killian's back and a rough hand is at his elbow pulling him away. He's disoriented for a second, and moves in the direction the hand is pulling him, finally putting it together with the deep, slurred voice he hears next to him bellowing, "Come on, man! Let's go do the beer bong!" Bloody Dave. Killian grumbles to himself. Why am I mates with such a bloody cockblocker?
Nonetheless, Killian follows, consoling himself with the idea that Mary Margaret will have Dave's arse tomorrow for getting shite-faced again. But for now… What the hell? This is s'posed to be a party, right?
The next morning, Killian awakes to pounding in his head and pounding on his door. Bloody buggering… ugh. He was having such a good dream, too. He can't remember it clearly, but if he closes his eyes, he can still see flashes of golden hair and glittering green eyes. Closing his eyes again is exactly what he wants to do, but that damn pounding on his door doesn't seem to be stopping.
He stumbles through the living room, realizing along the way that he's apparently slept in last night's clothes. The vast majority of the party is a complete blur to him. He remembers seeing Milah when he first got there, and then immediately becoming intimately acquainted with the majority of a bottle of Captain Morgan. He's got to stop drinking so much, he knows. It's not going to make Milah come back, and - as evidenced by this morning's raging headache - it sure as shite isn't making him feel any better.
But… he thinks for a moment, something else did. In this morning's glaring light, he realizes something has made the sting of Milah's rejection fade. He can't remember what happened, but he can feel an easing in his soul, a renewed a spark of hope inside him. He just wishes he knew what it was. He blames the rum.
He opens the door to find Dave standing there, holding a greasy take-out bag. Mary Margaret is apparently on the warpath about his drinking last night, and he wants to lay low at Killian's place for a while. Killian grunts his assent, snatching the bag from David's hand as he enters the apartment. The peace-offering of Granny's breakfast burritos was good form on his mate's part, but for some reason, he can't shake a feeling of resentment towards David. He's not sure why.
Dave grabs Killian's remote and clicks on ESPN, as the two slump down on the couch to eat and mindlessly channel surf. Killian lets his mind wander. He wishes for all the world he could remember what had happened at the party. He'd ask Dave, but his mate had been just as hammered as Killian. Whatever it was, he finally feels like he can let go of his first love - of Milah. So, he supposes he's grateful. But, still… he's never drinking that much rum ever again.
So what do you think? Will Killian remember Emma when he sees her again? Will she remember him? Will he ever learn to lay off the rum?
I love to hear your comments!