A/N: Truth be told, I am a bit of a grinch, and Christmas isn't really my favourite time of year. Case in point, it's 4:38am on Christmas morning, and I am writing this, knowing that I am going to be spending the rest of the day alone with naught but a bottle of Southern Comfort and a selection tray of Ferrero Rocher for company.
Be that as it may, I have to acknowledge that perhaps the best part of this year for me has been writing for this fandom. I've gotten a real sense of accomplishment from actually finishing stories, and receiving feedback and encouragement from you has meant the world to me. So, as well as my heartfelt thanks, here is a little something for Christmas. If Christmas isn't your thing, then feel free to simply take it as a suspiciously timed gift...
Part Two - The Christmas Party
Twelve hours previous...
...
...
It had all started with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
...
In theory, Killian Jones knew that the economy was a shambles. He wasn't daft. And yet, for some reason, on finally making the move to America, cashing in on the small miracle of his mother's ancestry, he'd assumed that his natural charm and five years in Her Majesty's Navy might help him get a leg up into some sort of career. He was... mistaken.
After six months eating ramen noodles in a squalid little flat in a neighbourhood of Boston that made Brixton look like Knightsbridge in comparison, getting rather a lot of form rejection emails, he finally found a steady paycheck... doing data entry.
It was mind numbing work. The company he worked for was a soulless marketing firm, selling the worst of American excess to gullible consumers, and yet his cubicle was barely wide enough to accommodate his chair. But his workstation did have one redeeming quality. The view.
Because, against all odds, in all the soul-sucking offices in all the world, Killian Jones spent eight hours a day less than three feet away from the most gorgeous creature on god's green Earth.
He'd noticed her on the very first day. How could he not, with all of that glossy blonde hair cascading over her chair shining under fluorescent lights, her citrus perfume wafting his way with every lazy oscillation of the overhead fan? She was, in a word, beautiful. He'd been captivated by the first, though wary. The rest of his office mates seemed to have long resigned themselves to their everyday drudgery, characterized by glazed expressions and dull eyes. He suspected that the guy three desks down still retained some semblance of his soul, if only because he would occasionally hear a snippet of David Bowie filtered through a pair of cheap headphones.
But Emma? That was her name. Emma Swan. It said so right on the laminated slip that was velcro-ed to the partition which utterly failed to obscure her dazzling profile from view. The velcro was a nice touch. It really sold that you're utterly replaceable feeling. He admitted, he watched her rather carefully on that first day, looking for signs of life. Anything that might indicate that she was still alive underneath that polished robotic facade, with her rather impressive typing speed.
It wasn't until lunch, when he'd made that awkward shuffle into that windowless break room that he'd really understood how fucked he really was. He'd seen her, of course, sitting across from him, half a sandwich in one hand, a rather weighty novel held open in the other. Seeing as his first paycheck hadn't come in yet, he'd neglected to pack a lunch, in the hopes the savings might net him enough for a pizza after work. And Emma Swan noticed.
He'd been so busy fumbling with his phone, trying to appear nonchalant and completely indifferent to the mouthwatering aromas of his colleague's meals, that when he noticed the sandwich half sitting in front of him on a crinkled square of aluminum foil, he almost thought he'd imagined the sleeve of her jumper snaking back across to her side of the table. She hadn't said a word. She still seemed perfectly occupied with her book. But when Killian pulled the offering towards him at last, he saw her quickly glance up from the page, the trace of a hidden smile reflected in her entrancing green eyes.
He hadn't packed a lunch since.
For nearly three years, five days a week, Emma Swan had given up half of her sandwich to him. Once the silence had been finally broken, an irresistible comment on the plaster cast that encased Killian's wrist for five weeks that spring (a rollerblading attempt gone awry), there had even been something of a rapport. Off-colour jokes. Seducing their fellow data entry robots into competitive feats achievable with the bare minimum of stationery supplies; it turned out there were some actual people hiding under those worker bee shells after all. Even if it took circumstances requiring creative use of a stapler to bring it out in them. After a while, the sandwiches would even be accompanied by Oreos. A granola bar. Sometimes they even branched out and ordered in grilled cheese from a greasy spoon down the street.
And in all that time he discovered that Emma Swan was much more than the beautiful blonde whose citrus scent lingered deliciously in his workspace. She was quick-witted, with a real talent for mischief. No one could execute an office prank quite like Emma. You'd never even see her leave her desk. And she was kind. The sandwiches had been proof enough of that, but he'd seen her comfort a woman they worked with, after she'd endured a rather brutal dressing down by their line manager after one too many typos left unchecked. She woman had been practically shaking in her seat, choking back tears, when Emma had coaxed her back to life with a Snickers bar and a few choice jabs at the unsavory appetites of the line manager in question.
Another thing he had discovered about Emma Swan. She was attached.
To some bloody wanker named Walsh who owned an antique furniture store in Cambridge, catering to the discerning tenured professor. He'd met the man a handful of times at company events, and he'd always seemed so frightfully boring. Certainly no true match for a woman who could unpick a locked filing cabinet in under twenty seconds with a paperclip. It was true, Killian may have been set against him by principle, but he dared anyone to rejoice in a twenty minute conversation debating the merits of gentrification in Charlestown. To be frank, he was a bloody ponce. And in a room full of marketing types, that was saying something.
Or at least, she had been attached.
Word around the water cooler was she'd chucked him, back before Halloween. He'd certainly noticed a change in her. She seemed to spend less time during their lunches frowning at her phone, or drifting off into wordless thought. She laughed harder at his stupid innuendos. Smiled wider when a new office record was broken during that week's Stationery Olympics.
And tonight was the office Christmas Party, so generously put on by the upper management in a rather seedy Mexican place a few blocks over that had less than stellar reviews on Yelp. Maybe it wasn't the ideal venue, but after three years of pining for Emma Swan, enough was enough.
He thought back to the text he'd received that morning from his brother back in London. Liam Jones found his younger brother's little crush, accidentally confessed last Christmas after one too many Cuba Libres, to be the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. So naturally, once his laughter had subsided, he appointed himself Killian's wingman, not letting a little thing like the North Atlantic Ocean get in the way of his meddling.
A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets, the text had read.
Killian hadn't had enough coffee at the time to process the advice, but now, standing in front of the mirror in the rather unimpressive men's room of La Fiesta Tequileri & Taco Bar, his hands clutched on either side of the chipped enamel sink, he repeated it under his breath like a mantra. It was true, she might reject him. Maybe she and her social climbing beau were still an item after all. Maybe she just flat out didn't see him that way. Maybe mentioning anything would completely obliterate three years of built up trust and affection, and Killian would be out on his arse, looking for his next soulless corporate gig just to get away from the awkwardness.
Those were all very real possibilities. But Liam had a point. To borrow a rather American metaphor, if he didn't even put his hat into the ring, how could he realistically expect Emma to pick him?
So yes. He'd do it. He'd tell Emma how he felt.
Decided at last, he spent a couple minutes more psyching himself up, wishing he had rather more cheap tequila in his system than he did. A rather fortuitous wish really, for when he finally emerged from the rest room, who sat at his recently vacated bar stool, holding the makings of a tequila slammer out to him, but Emma bloody Swan?
"Ready, Jones?" She challenged, letting her grin widen as he took the offered glass, his fingers brushing hers in a way that made all of the nerve endings on his arm sit up and take notice.
"When you are, Swan," he replied with a short incline of the head, gaze locked on hers in answer to her challenge. With a whispered count to three, they each covered the tops of their glasses and slammed them against the bar, tipping their heads back in unison to capture every frothy mouthful as their beverages threatened to spill over. Killian made a bit of a mess of it, feeling a rush of bubbles slide down the corners of his mouth, ensuring his signature scruff would be sticky with 7-Up, despite his best efforts to contain the mess with his sleeve.
Emma Swan had no such problems, draining her glass with a practiced grace, and placing it back down onto the bar with a decisive thud, her eyes shining with her victory. She was so fucking beautiful, he thought. And it was now or never.
He opened his mouth, hoping the right words would just sort of materialise, when Emma Swan grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and pulled his lips to hers.
It was completely unexpected. It was definitely not work venue appropriate. It was, in truth, a little sticky. And it was hands down the best kiss of Killian's life. It took him a moment to realise that he was, in fact, not dreaming, but once he copped on, he reciprocated with equal enthusiasm. Three years of pent up yearning for this woman unleashed in a single moment, as he snaked a hand around her waist to pull her even closer, her lips parting to grant him better access. The sour taste of tequila on her tongue mixed with the sweetness of soda was an intoxicating combination, and he knew that he'd never be able to think of her and not think of that taste again.
When they finally broke apart, the need for oxygen too urgent, he was wrecked. Ruined, in the best possible way.
"Lass..." he began, rather breathlessly, his forehead still resting on hers. "That was..."
"Probably the tequila," she said, pulling away slightly, and for a moment Killian stilled, the grin frozen on his lips. But Emma was still smiling. And though her cheeks were flushed, from either the kiss or the alcohol, or both, her lovely eyes still retained that familiar focus. It was the kind of determination he'd seen applied to spreadsheets as often as he had to her constructions of catapults from rubber bands and pencils. And now that determination was rounded on him, and the lips he now dragged his fingertips over, where they still tingled with her phantom touch. She knew what she was doing. She'd meant to kiss him. Killian resisted the urge to punch the air in victory.
"We should get more, don't you think?" She said, turning around to hail the bartender over again.
"Just a moment, Swan," he said, grabbing her raised arm by the elbow and tugging her gently around to face him again. "You can't expect to just kiss a man like that, and not explain yourself."
He'd tried to keep his tone light, teasing even. But she furrowed her brow then, and if he was correct, he saw a flash of uncertainty cross her features.
"I don't know," she shrugged, looking around them for the first time, just in time to notice that they'd accrued something of an audience, most specifically the ladies from Accounts, who seemed to have frozen in place, margaritas halfway to their lips, unwilling to miss a second of the unfolding spectacle.
"Outside?" Killian offered quietly, scowling at the voyeurs. "There's a back door."
"Yeah," she pulled herself up from where she'd been leaning over the bar. "A little fresh air would be good."
Killian led the way, down the hallway past the restrooms and the door to the kitchen, from whence rapid-fire Spanish and delectable aromas emanated, out the screen door that led to the alley behind. It wasn't exactly where Killian would have pictured having this conversation, right beside an overflowing dumpster, the asphalt underfoot patterned with the abandoned cigarette stubs of a generation of restaurant workers. And yet, even by the neon light of the hotel opposite, she was captivating. And maybe a little nervous.
With some trepidation, he raised his hands up to trail up and down her arms, both in an attempt to be comforting, and also to keep her warm against the December chill. She hadn't brought her jacket outside with her, and he saw the goosebumps forming on the skin that wasn't covered by her thin sweater. To his relief, she didn't flinch from his touch. But she did seem confused.
"I honestly don't know why I kissed you," she began, gaze focused on her shoes, and Killian resisted the urge to curse internally, nodding for her to continue. "I was feeling good. It had been a while. And I guess I just... wanted... to?" she trailed off. She looked up to meet his eyes then, and she must have misinterpreted the intensity of his gaze, because she added. "But I can see it was stupid, so-"
He didn't let her finish, taking a swift step forward, hand curling around the back of her neck to kiss her again, letting his resolve show her that he hadn't found it stupid at all. The tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders since he'd dare ask the question melted away, and before he knew what had happened, they'd backed up against a brick wall, Killian's hands shooting out to brace himself either side of her head.
Too fast. It was too fast. One more step forward, and they'd be practically entwined. He would be able to feel almost every inch of her, warm against him. Which was not the worst idea in the world. And she didn't seem opposed, if the hands she had working his shirt out of his jeans at that precise moment were any indication, but it was too bloody soon.
With no small amount of effort, he broke the kiss, reaching down to still her roaming fingers by squeezing them in his own. "Easy, lass," he said with a breathless laugh, as her lips chased his as he pulled away. She pouted then, and he was sure it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. Certainly left all those cat videos Liam kept sending him for dust.
"It wasn't stupid," he said, tipping her chin up until their eyes met, willing her to see he was serious. "I'm just equal parts thanking my lucky stars, and wondering what the hell has just happened. An impulse, you said?"
"Yeah," Emma agreed, eyes drifting dangerously back to his lips, and then back up to meet his. "But a good one, right?"
It would have been so easy for him to just accept this for what it was. Some frenzied making out with a gorgeous woman. But it wasn't just that. This was also Emma Swan. He knew her. And he also knew himself. If this was just going to be a one-time thing, best back out now, before he compromised himself more than he already had. As it was, he knew he was going to be dreaming about the taste of tequila slammers and the feel of warm hands on his skin for weeks. Months.
"Emma," he groaned, as she began massaging the hand that was still entwined with hers between her forefinger and her thumb. "Emma," he repeated, louder this time, trying to bring her back to herself. She sure didn't make it easy on him, but she did stop her ministrations. "Tell me if I have a chance in hell here. Not just a hot make out in an alley, or whatever leads on from that. An actual chance."
She seemed to snap back into herself at his words, finally, the haze of lust receding from her eyes. A feral part of him delighted in putting it there. But an even greater part of him was glad to see it go, to see the Emma he knew staring back at him. Her face was set, serious, as she considered him, saying nothing.
He resisted the urge to prod her words along, detangling from her to lean against the brickwork beside her. No longer burdened by his eyes on her, she found the courage to open her mouth at last. "I think..." she began, almost shyly, "I think it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world?" There was uncertainty there, in the way she seemed to frame it as a question, rather than a definitive statement, but when she chanced a look at his reaction, Killian couldn't prevent the grin that was rapidly overtaking his face.
"Well then, lass," he said, grasping one of her hands in his, and raising it to his lips. "I'd say that merits another drink."
