Written on request for a "what happens in Vegas" AU.
The title comes from Hal Rothman's book Neon Metropolis: "In a city of illusion, where change is what the city does, it's no wonder Las Vegas is the court of last resort, the last place to start over, to reinvent yourself in the same way that the city does, time after time. For some it works; for some it doesn't, but they keep coming and trying."
It's morning, a fact Emma only knows because her head is killing her and there's goddamn light shining on her eyes because some asshole didn't think to close the curtains the night before.
She squeezes her eyes tight shut and lurches out of bed, stumbling across the room blind, tripping over scattered clothes along the way. Catches her balance by smacking into the glass with both hands, yanks the shades shut with a vengeance, and turns round to stumble right back into bed. She trips again on the way back, squints down to see a leather jacket that does not belong to her, and blearily processes the naked man starfished across the bed.
Emma adds two and two and Vegas, and lifts up her left hand to squint for a ring. There's nothing of the kind on her hand, and she sighs in relief before unceremoniously shoving the guy over to make room. He rolls on his side with a sleepy grumble - and even in her still-drunken, aching, exhausted daze, Emma takes a moment to grin appreciatively. He's all angles, and it's too dark to see him clearly but it's obvious already that she did pretty well for herself last night. Looking at the dark shadow of scruff on his cheeks already has vague memories surfacing of it scratching between her thighs, which is, hmm, very nice.
She'll recall more later, she always does, but right now Emma's way too hungover to care. She wedges herself into the little free space he's left on the huge bed (yeah, this is definitely not her hotel room), and he instantly turns into her, wraps himself around her, his skin pressing warm and electric against hers. He ducks his head into her neck and hums contentedly, still out like a light, and Emma would shove him away but he's warm and the bed's soft and her head is killing her and she just needs a couple hours more-
-xxx-
The second time Emma wakes up her head is much clearer, but she's alone in bed. Too sleepy still to decide if that's disappointing or not, she groans softly and indulges in a long, luxurious stretch before even opening her eyes.
There's a low, distinctly male, distinctly appreciative hum from across the room.
Blinking slowly alert, Emma sits up without bothering to cover herself. There's no point to it; he'd gotten an eyeful just now even if he hadn't gotten much closer last night. And anyway, she's never been particularly modest.
He seems to be, though, Emma notes sadly as she focuses her gaze on the man across the room. At least, he's pulled his jeans on, and has his shirt on though it's not yet buttoned. It's a shame, really - now that the room's a little brighter (light's sneaking in around the edges of the curtains, it must be freaking midday already) Emma can confidently say that her partner for the night is gorgeous.
He's lean but definitely well-muscled, a dark trail of hair leading down his chest and into his jeans, frustratingly out of sight. He's got a necklace, which Emma missed earlier, a silver chain with what looks like a skull falling to the center of his chest. He's got an earring too, and eyeliner; Emma remembers the leather jacket on the floor and she'd snicker but it works ridiculously well for him. He seems to know it, too - with his cocky grin and bright blue eyes searing unabashedly over Emma's bare skin, his hair all tangled up ridiculously on his head in a way that makes Emma want to just dig her fingers in and yank his lips to hers - he's exuding smug satisfaction.
For a couple minutes, they just sit there, watching each other in some kind of silent mutual appreciation society. Eventually, though, the quiet shifts, from sexually-charged evaluation into something a little more awkward. Emma bites her lip. Mystery Man opens his mouth, but then lets it fall back into a unsure little grin.
"So," Emma says eventually, lifting up her left palm and spreading her fingers wide. "No ring, at least?"
It's perhaps not the best opening ever - but actually, not so bad, because he huffs a laugh and gestures at the desk, grin gone rueful.
"No license either," he admits, and his sleep-roughed accent is unexpected but it sends tingles up Emma's spine. "I checked too."
"I - awesome," Emma says, a little surprised, and he laughs again, and she gets out of bed to hunt down her underwear. She might not have - might have considered inviting him in to join her, actually - but he's already resumed buttoning his shirt and it's reminded Emma that she's got a flight to catch in probably no more than a few hours.
"Killian Jones," he offers after a few moments of oddly companionable quiet, unsubtly ogling her ass as she bends to step into her panties.
"Emma Swan," she returns with a quick grin, looking up. "Have you seen my-?"
Killian picks her bra up from behind the lamp and tosses it over to her. Emma catches it easily, and pulls it on as he finishes up his last few buttons. Then she's wiggling back into her dress and he's shrugging on his jacket, she digs her heels out from under the bed while he sits down to lace up a pair of sturdy motorcycle boots (of course). All the while, they don't say a word, and it should be awkward again but it isn't. They're sneaking glances at each other - or rather openly taking glances - and there's this odd mix of comfortable domesticity and slowly building sexual tension once more.
Emma brushes past him in the narrow hallway by the door on her way to the bathroom, and she can feel the air between them heating up. She glances back at him over her shoulder as she shuts the door, unsurprised to find him watching her intently. There's heat pooling in her gut, and she has to splash water on her face, remind herself she's on a schedule.
She uses the facilities, takes care of morning hygiene, and applies a little makeup automatically, thoughts very firmly centered on the other side of the door. She's listening but she hasn't heard him leaving the room, even though he was definitely ready to leave; the knowledge that he must be waiting for her squirms low in her stomach.
She shouldn't know what to expect. Doesn't know a thing about him, really, except that his smirk is wicked and her muscles are sore in all the best ways - but then again, maybe that's enough. That, and his laugh at their avoidance of that famous Vegas cliche; the quiet, easy way they functioned around each other; his voice; his eyes.
Emma takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
Killian's lounging against the wall on the other side of the narrow hallway, and it's so natural the way they fall together, Emma can't be sure if he pulled her in or she stepped forward on her own. He slides his hands down her shoulders, tugs at her hips; Emma moves with him easily, grips at his lapel with one hand and uses the other to cup his cheek, tilting his head down until their lips meet.
It's electric.
The moment their lips touch, a sharp frisson flickers through Emma, some half-memory of last night maybe, doesn't matter, what matters is that his fingers are suddenly digging into her sides and her grip on his jacket has gone white-knuckle tight; Emma tilts her head for a better angle, left hand reaching up to card through that thick dark hair and he groans a little against her lips, she can't -
Can't think, can't breathe, god; Emma pulls back to take a quick gasp of air, but she only gets a second because then Killian's hands are leaving her hips, coming up to clutch at her head and he's kissing her again, and it's wild and desperate and completely out of control, he's tugging her closer, biting at her lip, sucking at her tongue. Emma gives back as good as she gets, she's pressing in so close that she can feel the buttons of his shirt digging into her belly through her dress, she's rocking her hips up against his just to hear his gasp, the way his head thunks against the wall and she chases after, for one more long, deep wreck of a kiss until they're both forced to break for air again - and they pant against each other, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing.
Emma's dizzy, near-shaking from the rush of - of adrenaline, or endorphins, or whatever the hell that was, she curls her fingers tighter into his jacket and just tries to breathe steady.
(Thinks, can't wait for those memories to come back, because if this is only a kiss, damn-)
"That was, uh," Killian breathes, and the sound of his voice, rough with obvious desire, sends a warm flush under her skin. He hesitates for a moment, then laughs almost a little desperately: "…are you sure you're not wearing a ring?"
Emma's startled into a laugh too, one that's all too genuine and, swiftly interrupted, sinks down into a content hum as Killian leans in to press a sweet, slow kiss to her lips.
"Sorry," she gasps when they part, and he sighs roughly in disappointment, thumb rubbing softly against her cheek. "No ring."
"Damn," Killian says, and then, "I have to go," before kissing her again.
"I know," Emma nods, dragging her fingernails through hair, "Me too, I-"
"Wouldn't have gotten out of bed in the first place, love, if I didn't have to-" he cuts off as she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, hand sliding warmly up and down her back as Emma drops a trail of little kisses along his jaw.
"I get it, shhh," she whispers, and he outright groans when she bites gently at his neck.
They don't have time for anything more - Emma doesn't, at least, and Killian certainly seems eager enough to stay if he could - but their kisses drag on and on, like reluctant teenagers unwilling to stay separated for more than a few seconds at a time, even as they gradually nudge their way down the short hall towards the door. She can feel his every touch burning through her, there's nothing more she wants than to pull him right back to bed and recreate every fuzzy memory she's got of the night before - better.
But they've both got places to be, and eventually Killian's phone beeps in his pocket, shattering whatever spell had them trading lazy kisses, Emma's arms looped loosely round Killian's neck. He plucks it out of his pocket and whatever he sees on the screen has his scowling instantly.
"Bloody hell," he mutters at the phone, stowing it back away. He looks back up to Emma, deep blue eyes catching hers.
"You have to go?" Emma asks with a disappointed twist to the words she can't quite hide, and slowly steps back, letting her arms fall back to her sides.
"Yeah," Killian sighs, and steps back too. He's actually got the door open and is halfway out in the hall when he stops again, whirling back around to face her.
"Emma," he says, a little too urgently. "I left my number by the bed, before you woke up."
Then he seems to calm down a little; he just… looks at her for a moment, and something about that look has Emma's pulse quickening, her breath falling short in her throat, and she feels young and reckless and tingly all over when he reaches a hand up to her (is he gonna kiss me again? she wonders, more like a teenager than ever).
Killian tucks a strand of Emma's hair behind her ear, smiling soft and wide. "Use it."