just a little somethin'-somethin' that popped into my head for my new favourite OTP. Enjoy!
Emma awoke to the sound of activity, muffled thumps and fumbling near her ears along with the hum of a machine she couldn't remember hearing before. The first sleep drugged thought to float to the top of her mind was that she wasn't at home, but the scent of her pillows was distinct: she felt like she was home, she just wasn't used to the noises. Finally she shifted, letting out a long breath and the movement instantly sent a jolt of pain to her skull. Her head felt like it was stuffed full of folded silk, unravelling and creasing with painful precision beneath the surface of her skin. She identified the feeling instantly as too much tequila and not enough lime, and let out a high pitched whine into her pillow. All of a sudden one of the thumps became distinctly less muffled and the sound of something crashing to the floor sprung open her eyes.
She ignored the wooziness associated with the beams of light assaulting her cornea and instead focused on the source of the sound: a shape trying to slowly move about her room. Prepared to face up to the mistakes brought on by the tequila and no lime Emma opened her mouth to speak, pausing only to survey the damage.
The man was momentarily distracted by the pile of records he'd just knocked off her dresser onto the floor and she allowed herself a moment to observe. His ratty black jeans were on but not done up at the top, his shirt was notably missing and a worn leather jacket rested around his bare shoulders, affording her a good look at his toned chest. Perhaps she hadn't done so badly after all. His chest was laden with black string necklaces, hands currently stooping to pick up records adorned with large rings, but his face was hidden from view. Unmistakable bed hair in raven could be seen, though: soft, raven hair she could remember running her fingers through as flashbacks of the night before sprung to her mind.
As if realising he was being observed, the man lifted his face and caught her eye: bright, twinkling blue eyes and the scruff of a beard a few days old surrounding a cheeky smile.
She cursed inwardly: it was worse than she thought. A guitarist, and a damn good looking one at that — the worst of it was his probable awareness of the fact. They were always the toughest to get rid of. No, that was a lie, she thought; the worst of it was that his grin looked downright sinful and she couldn't string together anything more substantial than flashes of memory from the night before.
"Don't worry," he spoke up suddenly, and Emma was suddenly aware of the fact that she'd been staring at him from the huddle of her duvet quite intently. His accent was unfamiliar, some kind of lilting Britishness there. "I know how this works."
Emma let out a small noise of relief. "Then couldn't you be a little quieter?"
She nestled in closer to her pillow and let her eyes shut, content that for once she might've struck lucky with a guitarist who didn't want to stay and talk about his feelings or gloat about the night before.
"Didn't get much sleep, hm?" She could hear the smug smile in his words without needing to see it. Regardless, there was something tempting in his voice — an unspoken invitation, as if he were murmuring intimately into her ear. A sensuality she was unused to. "Someone keep you up?" At his teasing she let one eye open to watch him, and visibly narrowed it. She was rewarded with a chuckle. It struck her then that she actually had no idea what to call him, which was harsh even for her. Usually she wasn't as bad as that. Maybe she'd just grabbed him before he could even get the word out.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts he continued; "It's Killian, by the way."
"I don't care." The bite in her tone was unmistakable, and instinctive.
Although Killian seemed to have no trouble ignoring it as he finished collecting her fallen records and stood up to his full height, returning them to their rightful place on her dresser.
"I made coffee, I hope that's alright," he brought a mug she only now noticed he was holding to his lips and raised his eyebrows, as if inviting her to challenge him. "Although I have to admit, I struggled a little with your grinder. Or maybe it struggled with me. You don't make coffee very much, do you?"
He wasn't entirely correct; Emma valued speed of ingestion over quality of beverage, and tended to drink nothing but instant. The grinder Killian spoke of had been a scathing birthday present from Regina for Mary Margaret's 22nd birthday, thus neither of them had touched it yet. Emma surmised one of the unfamiliar noises that roused her from sleep must've been the ill-used machine.
She didn't particularly feel like blessing the half-naked man in her bedroom with this information, but Emma wasn't sure how she felt about this Killian making assumptions about her life, either.
"What makes you say that?"
"Apart from the fact that it was still half in the packaging?" Killian grinned. "Although having said that, you're clearly not a morning person so I'm not entirely certain how that works out."
"Mm, well, feel free to keep thinking," she mused, finally sighing and realising she wasn't going to get any more sleep, "but drink up. And find your shirt. I don't want you leaving it here for me to catch any of your diseases."
"No offence, but I think you've probably already sabotaged yourself in that area, love."
Emma shot him a glare but ultimately ignored him, sitting up and wrapping a sheet around her naked shoulders. The nearest piece of clothing she could find was the long button-up shirt she'd been using for pyjamas: a leftover from her venture into Valley Boys that she was still recovering from. Herding people like this Killian out of her apartment hadn't become a totally uncommon occurrence in the wake of her parting with Neal Cassidy.
She could feel Killian's eyes on her as she let the sheet drop and wrapped the shirt around her, deliberately taking her time. Truthfully, she relished the attention. It felt good to be wanted. With all the buttons done up she finally straightened and turned back to him, ignoring the pounding of her head and privately admiring the heat in his gaze. Emma tried again to conjure up an image of his face above her, below her, what his hands might have felt like — nothing. Frustration didn't quite cover it.
"Feel free to go now."
Killian was emphatic with his refusal, almost as if he were deliberately trying to irritate her in the light of her clear attempt to usher him to a prompt exit. "What's the rush?" he teased, "I thought I'd stick around, make some breakfast. Maybe watch you sleep a little more."
Emma scowled. Guitarists were definitely the worst.
"You were watching me sleep?" she scoffed. "Great. Clingy and twisted."
"You looked like an angel," he continued as if he couldn't hear her, and something about the way his smile was teasing at the corner of his mouth made him seem suddenly so genuine. She knew better. "I couldn't tear my eyes away. I was finding it difficult to reconcile that image with the nail scars down my—"
He never finished his sentence, as one of Emma's pillows hit him square in the face.
With that Emma swept out of the room, heading into the kitchen area and hoping he'd take the initiative and follow her: one step closer to the door.
"Hey, sorry, wait," he said, as he predictably stepped out of her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. "Couldn't resist." He looked surprisingly sheepish, and Emma paused mid-hurricane of preparing some sort of hangover cure-esque breakfast to watch him carefully. Killian caught her eye and held her gaze, his pastel blue eyes softening a little as he tilted his head to the side.
Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he stepped closer to the kitchen counter standing between them. "Why don't I stay and cook you something? As a thank you for last night." Sensing her refusal he ploughed on; "My pancakes are so bloody brilliant they're illegal in at least five states, y'know."
He was goading her, challenging her to take him up on the offer, and for a long moment she was sorely tempted. There was an openness in his eyes that left no room for expectation, for judgement, and she enjoyed it. And pancakes did sound like the perfect way to start her day — not to mention the way his tongue drifted out to his upper lip was downright indecent.
"Well," she started quietly, matching the softer tone of the exchange, "tempting as it is, given I've already been arrested once I think we better not take the risk."
A slow smile dawned on his face, and he nodded, before taking another sip of his coffee and setting it down on the counter. "A girl used to grappling with the strong right arm of the law, I like that."
"And if my sister comes home and finds you loitering in her apartment, you'll be grappling with a totally different strong right arm. Specifically a clenched fist."
"Ah," Killian's eyes twinkled, "but she hasn't tried my pancakes yet."
Despite it all, Emma smiled indulgently. "You think you're cute."
"I know I'm cute."
Biting her cheek to stop her grin from growing wider, Emma walked back around the counter and covered the last few paces to the door of the flat, opening it slowly as she maintained a lazy eye contact. There was a certain intensity he returned her gaze with and his entire stance was tense, as if he were restraining himself from moving towards her and his limbs hummed with the effort. Emma delighted in that. She was thrilled by the notion that all he wanted to do was press her back against the door and tear open Neal's old shirt, button by button. It wasn't a question of interest, merely opportunity — one which she wasn't going to give him.
"C'mon. Time to go…" Emma found herself trailing off as he finally stood, wondering if he'd push for that opportunity regardless.
"Killian," he supplied, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth, correctly assuming his name had gone entirely from her head.
Emma clicked her tongue. "I still don't care."
He passed by her, slowly, eyes boring into hers but Emma steeled her gaze — no matter how damn attractive he was, he would not be staying in her apartment. Not with Mary Margaret on her way home soon, and not with that grin that looked like it was used to causing damage. There was a moment he hesitated, only a few inches above her and well in a position to kiss her regardless of her thoughts on it, and her eyes flickered to his lips unbidden. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.
"Don't I at least get to find my shirt?"
"I'm afraid," she continued softly, leading him to believe she was preserving the intimacy of the moment, laying her left palm on his chest, "that window of opportunity has closed." Then she applied all the force she could muster and shoved him the final few paces, the man surprised enough to stumble back over the threshold. Emma offered a saccharine smile. "And you know what they say — when one window closes, so does the door."
Without further preamble she tossed the door back into the frame, his single protest muffled by the wood slamming into place.
"Good thing I hated that shirt, then!"
Making a mental note to search her room sometime later so she could incinerate said shirt before combing every inch with disinfectant, Emma returned to the kitchen to try and find something to lull the throbbing in her skull. The apartment she shared with Mary Margaret was modest to put it mildly, but the rent was cheap and that was the most that she could ask for in a place like Storybrooke. She'd been bugging her sister to move somewhere less pricey for almost a year now, but she simply wasn't having any of it — and being between jobs as she was, Emma didn't exactly have the means to support herself financially on her own.
Her thoughts strayed to the man she'd just unceremoniously banished from the flat, this Killian. Patches of the night before kept coming back to her in waves, the drink, the thrum of the crowd, she thought she could pull together the moment their gazes had slammed together across the bar — he really hadn't been awful to look at. She just wished she could know subjectively whether she'd done quite well. Especially since she'd been scoping for guys at one of David's gigs, and they didn't always attract the most interesting of crowds.
It was only as she turned to begin making a mug of coffee that she came across an unfamiliar object on her kitchen counter; by the coffee grinder she and Mary Margaret had studiously avoided like it was cursed, a black piece of cloth had been folded neatly with a post-it note stuck on top. As Emma realised just what she'd acquired she couldn't help the wry smile that broke out; she pulled off the post-it and tried to decide if she was more amused or exasperated.
My favourite shirt, would hate to lose forever: property of Killian Jones. If found, please call 207-746-5217.
—K x.
She didn't. Call him, that is.
But she was also correct in assuming it wouldn't be the last time she'd hear from him. And, oddly, the notion wasn't entirely as unappealing as she'd thought it would be.
Well, that was kinda fun. Let me know what you thought! :D
