"Hey beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?"

She tries really hard not to roll her eyes – really, she does – but can't help it, because she's barely been sitting for ten seconds and already some frat boy comes to annoy her. Can't a girl have a break for a minute there, seriously? But she knows those guys, knows them all too well, so she forces a humourless smile on her lips as she turns to look at him. Yep, definitely some drunk frat boy, with the stupid cap and stupid hoodie and stupid grin – just her luck.

"No, thank you."

"Oh come on, darling. Just one drink."

The stubbornness doesn't surprise her all that much – she's seen worse, sadly – but it still annoys her and she mentally curses her friends for being too busy dancing to help her out on that one. She curses Mary Margaret for thinking going out and celebrating the end of term would be a good idea, because it isn't, and here she is, flirted at by a joke of a human being who can't take a hint.

"I said no, thank you."

"So defensive," he says, ignoring her grimace as his hand finds her thigh – for a second there, all she wants is to chop it off. "Got a boyfriend?"

That's it. She's about to give him a piece of her mind – how she's not someone's propriety and she shouldn't have some dude pissing on her leg for other dudes to understand they're not fucking welcomed – when the hand is swatted away and another man places himself between her and the dimwit, casually leaning against the bar counter. She blinks up at the newcomer – dark hair, blue eyes, shit-eating grin – before a loud sigh escapes her lips but…

"Sorry, traffic was a bitch. You all right?"

She blinks again, mouth opening in confusion, both at the sudden appearance and unexpected Irish accent – and gosh, he winks at her, what even? But still, Emma's first thought isn't to shrug him off the way she wanted to do with the other dude, which is even more confusion in itself. And speaking of the devil…

"Excuse me, dude, but I was there first so…"

The way he glares at the frat boy can only be described as feral, wrinkling his nose with quiet anger. The other man takes a step back – but only one, what an idiot.

"Excuse me, mate, but I've know Allison since we were babes so I'm pretty sure I was there first."

Her eyes widen for a second because, seriously, why did she do to deserve those two idiots – that is, until she realises he used some made-up name for her. It clicks then, and she can't help but scoff at her improvised knight in shining armour. The whole thing is ridiculous, and she's not quite drunk enough yet for that kind of shenanigans, so she downs her drink before patting Sexy Irish on the arm.

"Calm down, James. The guy was leaving anyway."

She pointedly looks at the frat boy then, who finally decides this is a lost battle and goes back to his herd of idiots. Emma sighs loudly as she turns back to the counter and catches the bartender's attention, having her glass refilled in a matter of seconds. It's only when she's bringing her drink to her lips that she notices Sexy Irish hasn't moved, ordering a drink of his own.

She frowns at him, confused. Emma isn't foreign to that little trick to get rid of clingy guys, and Mary Margaret has helped her out more than once, providing much needed distraction – hell, David even pretended to be her boyfriend once. But coming from some random stranger? Who didn't go all touchy-feely on her in the process? Who didn't even try to force a thanks out of her right after? Damn right it leaves her confused and (charmingly) surprised.

"I'm Killian, by the way," he tells her between two sips of his rum, eyes twinkling as he might notice the stupor written all over her face. He laughs. "Sorry, but I knew he wouldn't leave you alone so… I'm actually doing this with my cousin Ruby quite often, I know how to recognize the signs by now."

He nods to something above her shoulder, and Emma turns around to find a leggy brunette grinding against… well, Victor, apparently. Very much willingly this time, she notices, as her blond friend looks like he just won the jackpot and doesn't believe his luck. She scoffs before turning back to look at her saviour with a small smile that grows bigger with the contagious grin he offers her. Stupid good-looking idiot.

"Emma."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Emma."

Her name on his lips, even tuned down by the loud music of the club, sounds like warm honey, and she finds herself biting her lip – which she quickly hides with yet another sip of whiskey. Killian only wriggles his eyebrows at her before taking his glass to leave – and gosh, he's not even trying a move, like some sort of old-school gentleman. So she acts on instinct. Grabs his arm. Pulls him back next to her.

"Can you stay? Just in case he comes back?"

If he reads the blatant lie in her voice and on her face, he doesn't point it out.

…

From this point, it becomes some kind of habit.

"Oh god, Emma, you will never believe what… who's the guy?"

"Lass, where did you go? I was looking for you everywhere."

Somewhat, and to the general surprise of no one, cousin Ruby and Victor become an item, which results in the brunette spending more time with the group – which leads to more partying, apparently. And, every time without failing, Killian shows up out of nowhere when she's being hit on unwillingly. Emma is surprised at how not annoyed she is with the whole thing – she can take care of herself, thank you very much – but instead is very amused by his antics and the excuses he finds every time.

The stories get better and more complex as time passes by, accumulating little details and fake shared memories. Their mothers are best friends and went through pregnancy together – they grew up in the same neighbourhood until Killian went back to Ireland when he was eight, hence the accent – they've always been best friends – his car is awfully slow and he's always stuck in traffic for some reason. Emma would never admit it out loud, because it's still all about deflecting misogynists, but she has fun with him. He makes her laugh with a joke or a wink, sometimes both, and forces her to dance sometimes, when one of the guys really insists on staying by her side.

"I kind of liked this one…" she says as Killian watches a guy running away, smirk on his lips.

"No, love. This one wasn't for you."

…

"I think you should let the lady decide for herself."

"And I think you should take a hint and leave, mate."

Killian may be all broad shoulders and lean muscles, but the guy is huge, probably the university's quarterback if his jacket is telling, so Emma's eyes widen as he takes a step forwards with a sneer, nose almost touching. She wants to pull him away, because now is obviously not the time or place to go all peacock on someone, but she doesn't move, simply stares at the scene unfolding in front of her, stares at Killian's dangerous grin.

Oddly turned on.

"Playing nice guy for her because she won't fuck you, huh?"

This is going to end in a… She doesn't have time to finish her thought before a fist is flying, landing on the guy's nose with the characterised 'crack' of broken bones. A gasp escapes her lips as Killian receives a punch of his own – it's all Victor and David need to jump in, quickly followed by Robin, against the jocks.

One black eye, one opened lip and several bruises later, they're all kicked out of the club by a pissed-off owner.

Killian just grins at her.

"You're a fucking idiot, Jones."

…

Ignoring the careful glances the bartender sends their way every so often, Emma shamelessly stares at Killian – the still-open wound on his lip from biting on it like a five year old, the fading bruise on his cheekbone turning to a pale yellow, the stupid mope of hair falling on his forehead. She stares at his Adam's apple as it bobs up and down when he sips his rum, stares at the way his long fingers flex around the glass, stares at his too-blue too-intense eyes.

She's not even subtle about it. Fuck subtlety.

"Something you want to ask, love?"

He doesn't even glance at her as he asks, just keep looking right in front of him at the many bottles of alcohol lining on the wall. It's a quiet night, what with being in the middle of final exams and all, and the first time he joins her at the bar without having to get rid of another man first. The whole thing is unsettling in its novelty, but not unwelcomed, and Emma finds herself frowning at him.

"Yeah. No, I mean…" She coughs, takes a sip of whiskey. "Why do you always let me buy my own drinks?"

That's what makes him finally look at her, eyebrow shooting up with a frown of his own – how he manages to do that, she'll never know. He stays silent for long seconds, just staring at her like he wants to read her thoughts, or her soul. The frown deepens before he shakes his head with a hollow laugh.

"What do you want from me, Emma?" His voice is cold, his eyes serious. "Because I don't want to be one of those fucking losers stupid enough to force beautiful women into accepting drinks. I'm not quite that desperate yet. So no, Emma, I won't buy you a drink, because I still have some self-respect, thank you."

Her jaw falls on its own accord, and she simple gapes at him as she tries to wrap her mind around his words. "Is it about what the guy said the other day? About fucking me?"

He winces, and it's enough for her to feel stupidly self-absorbed. Of course it isn't about her, why would it be, guys flirting with her like they would do any woman at a bar doesn't suddenly makes her the centre of the whole universe… But she notices his grimace is not of disgust, but of pain, and it makes her gasp.

(A small part of her thinks that Killian Jones doesn't fuck – he makes love.)

"Oh my god, it is."

He goes back to staring at the bottles while she keeps staring at him, and she's the one frowning now as a hundred question stubble in her mind – how? when? why her? It doesn't make sense, but neither roleplaying with a stranger in a crowded bar did. Except he's not a stranger anymore and he likes her, her cheeks burning at the mere thought.

On impulse, she bottoms up her whiskey.

"My glass is empty," she says. "I'd like it not to be."

She's obvious in her intentions but she doesn't care because, for the first time that night, a smile slowly blossoms on his lips.

"If the lady insists…"