A/N: An idea I got on my morning commute, based on the song "Polyester Bride" by Liz Phair. If you've never heard it, give it a listen. Or not. Just had to get the idea out.
To anyone reading my WIPs- I promise I'll be updating soon! Just got married, and the whole wedding planning process scared off the muses. Should have a lot of time to write now that I'm not pulling my hair out over centerpieces.
Reviews (good and bad) are welcome and strongly encouraged! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.
There was a pub that Emma liked when she wanted to get away, (away from her deadbeat ex-boyfriend, Neal, away from her crazy roommate, Lily.) It was a dive, really; an ancient little place tucked into a quiet, homey corner of North Brooklyn, somehow untouched by the evils of gentrification. She'd found it on accident one rainy day, some few years previously. She and Neal had been fighting, and she'd made a weird turn and happened upon the squat brick building and and ancient neon sign: Henry's. While she and Neal were no longer arguing exclusively, she still sought refuge inside the oak-paneled familiarity.
She liked the dirty stained glass in the tiny window, the sharp little bell that jingled when you walked in the door, and the knowing smirk from the bartender when he saw her there, shaking off her secondhand coat. It didn't matter that she was underage and dirt broke and wore lip gloss she'd palmed from Walgreen's: Killian would look at her in her torn up blue jeans, give her that little smile, and line up two shots of rum on the bar.
He was an attractive man, of some undetermined older age, with clear blue eyes that reflected the warm orangey light of the dim room.
"Emma, my young friend," he'd say in that low, exotic lilt, "A pleasure to see you, love. Come, sit, drink."
She knew he probably greeted all of his customers similarly, but she definitely didn't hate it. They'd throw back the shots together, and he'd pour her a vodka soda or two. Sometimes she could pay for two, and sometimes she couldn't, but he always pour her a second one, anyway. She tried to tell herself she only came back because she could drink for free, and definitely not because of the way the muscles in his arm rippled when he gripped the handle on the little soda nozzle thing. She told herself she wouldn't keep coming back, but week after week- day after day- she did.
Emma found herself, on an unseasonably chilly afternoon, trudging that familiar footpath to the weathered wooden door of Henry's.
The steadfast little bell- really just an old Christmas jingler precariously dangling from an aged bit of string- gave it's signal, and Killian looked up from the long, polished bar. He stretched languidly from his stooped position, and Emma observed he'd been reading a tattered paperback. He gave his trademark smile and she gave a little shrug. He furrowed his brow in concern.
"Emma, my young friend," he intoned, blindly reaching for the Captain behind him, "You look troubled. Come on and have a sip, then."
Truthfully, she did: Neal had come back around- the bastard- asking for favors and a place to crash. He'd probably been in lock up again: a drunken brawl or petty larceny. Whatever. It hardly mattered anymore, it was always the same with him. When she left, Lily was rolling a joint and Neal was making himself at home. She hadn't particularly wanted to stick around.
Emma exhaled slowly and dropped into the nearest bar stool, the cracked vinyl cushion sagging beneath her. She could feel the heat of Killian's gaze as she fidgeted with a thread on her sleeve. He poured the customary rum and sat the shot glass in front of her, and the dark liquor beckoned. She stared at her chipped pink thumbnail when she threw it back in one.
"Love, it is my solemn duty as your faithful bartender to make you spill your woes, whether by liquor or by force," he teased lightly.
"What's the difference?" She snorted.
He raised one rugged eyebrow before handing over her vodka soda. Emma took a sip and sighed.
"Okay, you're afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. Fine, I don't need you to share," Killian said regretfully, "But I'm afraid you're something of an open book."
He shook his head in mock disappointment.
"Oh, am I?" she grumbled. Normally, she was game for his teasing, but it was so not the day.
"Quite," he smirked.
Killian let the silence stretch out between them until she caved.
"Neal," she sighed, looking away. Killian knew all the grisly details, eked out over the bar and shots and shots of rum. (Always on the house.)
"Oh?" He asked, barely veiling his burning curiosity.
"Asshole," she scoffed. "The nerve! I'm burnt out. Degenerate shows up every few months and I'm supposed to just let him crawl back into my bed. I'm not doing this again. God, why are men like that?"
Emma glared at them as though he had been personally offensive. He rolled his eyes and turned around, busying himself with a dingy rag.
"You know something?" he said, changing the subject, "You're lucky to even know me."
"Ha!" she blurted out, "Lucky to be drinking in a hole in the wall at 3 pm in the middle of the week."
"Lucky to be drinking here for free," he pointed out.
"Right," she agreed awkwardly.
"You best remember it," he teased, turning back around and leaning over the bar so he was only inches from her face.
She almost drowned in the blue.
"You're fishing but you're catching all the wrong ones, love. These Neals of the world who'll eat your heart out and spend your money, and leave you cold with a babe and a broken spirit. You going to lie down and let the world walk all over you, or are you going to flap your little wings and fly away? You're worth so much more than that. Princess, you really want to end this vicious cycle, you do something. You act so helpless, and I see that look in your eyes. You're a lost girl and you're looking for somebody to love- I get that- but he isn't going to love you, love. Princess, do you really want to change your life? Bloody do something with it."
Emma sat for a moment, nonplussed. She was feeling lonely, and just feeling low, and Killian had swooped in and dropped the truth bomb on her lap. Maybe she should have felt more offended, but she sat quietly, mulling over his words.
"What am I gonna do?" She pleaded. "I grew up in the system. I barely graduated high school. You think anybody ever asked me what I wanted to do with my life? "Waitress" might as well have been written on my birth certificate. Hell, for all I know, it could have been! This is as good as it gets for me, and I've come to grips with that. I don't exactly have stockbrokers banging down my door."
"You think this is it?" He laughed, incredulous. "You've got time, love. You're what- 20? 21? 26 according to your clearly fake identification? Oh, don't give me that look! Like I'm a bloody idiot. A sucker for your pretty green eyes, maybe- but never a fool. You're practically a babe in arms. You could do whatever you set your mind to, with the proper motivation. You don't even have in you to just give up. You're a fighter, Em."
"What makes you think you know me so well?" She shot back. "We've never even been on the same side of the bar."
Much to her surprise, Killian set his rag down and walked to the opposite end of the bar. He unhooked the little latch to the swinging door there, and it clanged shut behind him. His footsteps echoed on the battered hardwood, and Emma blushed as he strode towards her, keeping her eyes forward. He came to pause behind her, and spun her around in the squeaky stool before bending down to her level.
"Open book, love," he whispered.
Emma could feel his warm, sweet breath on her cheeks, and they burned. She hadn't been this close to a man since the last time she and Neal had broken up, (some months prior), and her body as awash in keen awareness of Killian's proximity. She imagined she could hear his heartbeat reverberating through the empty bar. Her whole world had receded to only include the space between them: just herself, a certain bartender, and the sudden, intense heat that had sprung up between them.
"Princess, do you really think you aren't worth all of it? Cause if you just asked me, I could tell you. You are. God. You don't know how bloody beautiful you are, do you? I've watched you from that side of the bar for years, Emma. And I'm so tired. I'm tired of hearing about bloody Neal and your bloody dreadful childhood, and I'm tired of pretending like I don't want to save you."
"I don't anyone to save me," she breathed, entranced by the curve of his lips, which seemed to have moved infinitesimally closer to her own, "I can take care of myself, thanks."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," he chucked softly, "Doesn't mean I don't want to."
Before she could breath or think or muster a protest, he breached the remaining few inches between them.
Emma didn't lend herself to romantic notions. She didn't believe in fairy tales or true love or happily ever after. But when Killian kissed her, (oh God, did he kiss her), she swore she could see the whole of the sky behind her lidded eyes, right past the second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning.