Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or Once Upon A Time - the trolls Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz do. If I did, I'd make them canon faster than lighting.


Great. Everything was just going fucking great.

To be honest, the day had been going surprisingly well, all things considered. She hadn't been that eager about the whole gala thing – even though Sydney had promised it'd be potentially beneficial for her to attend, as he had told her the day before. She just wished she didn't have to play dress up and goad people to make them interested in her. She still found herself distrustful and wary of this Hollywood way of seeing things; the walls and layers of paint people wore in order to project a certain image to please everybody else. She knew about those: she had lived behind them herself for years until someone had made them crumble to pieces. She had learnt how to use them to her benefit: she could wear all kind of different layers to come up with a certain character, to feel like them and be them.

But sometimes, she wished people would just see her. Trust her talent. Bet on her.

Shucks, not everything went as one wanted. Surprise there, huh? Not really.

After admitting defeat at the prospect of a night out, she had caved and let Ruby handle the girly stuff part – dress, hairdo, heels – ugh, - and make up. But Emma knew as soon as she named her knight of the pre-gala she wouldn't be doing everything alone.

She should have known better. Should have expected the fashion brigade.

Ella. Mary Margaret. And, of course, Ruby.

She had found the three of them barging into her room, opening drawers and wardrobes, barking orders here and there and literally dragging her out of bed. They had made her try one dress after other, heels which would go with them, purses, clutches, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, a new mascara Ruby had gotten from some brand she had worked with the previous week, and dozens of every freaking tiny detail a girl should wear for a formal occasion.

It made the current situation positively hilarious, seeing that all those long hours of torture under her friends' hands only had led to a fucking glass of champagne in her dress.

Ella had mentioned something about karma that morning. Maybe she had deserved it? Had she pissed off someone so bad the universe was repaying her with this? She didn't think so. Pensive look mode activated, she thought long and hard about whatever she could have done. Nope. Nothing came to mind.

Maybe she was such a bad person she didn't even find her faults as such? WAS SHE? OH MY GOD SHE WAS.

"Emma? You okay?"

She looked in the bathroom mirror to find Ruby staring worriedly at her in the reflection. She looked amazing, as always. Emma still couldn't figure out how her friend wasn't modeling or walking down the catwalk – God knew she definitely could. But Ruby had never wanted to be valued for her looks – she'd rather do something she felt proud of, something she was good at, something that really filled her by making it with her own hands - not just being a pretty face. Something Emma had respected since she had met her those years ago, still young and carefree.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, I just spaced out for a bit. Apparently getting champagne shoved down your rack does that to you." She looked miserably at the front of her dress and sighed. She had actually liked this one – Mary Margaret had brought it and, as always, had been spot on. For all the trouble she seemed to find with Emma's wardrobe, she really knew what kind of clothes she'd feel more comfortable with – and hot, dared she say it. It was like she knew the line Emma would draw where she'd not feel herself wearing something. In this case, she hadn't even had to put up a fight for the match Emma-wear-this-or-I'll-make-you-for-the-love-of-Go d-just-wear-it-already – they loved to play that game every time they had a special night out, ever since they had been in college together; in fact, that was one of the steps in their fashion brigade routine. It was of a pale, soft blue cloth, draping in soft waves down her hips and showing the pale skin of her shoulders and collarbone. She didn't feel exposed, though, which was okay with her. And even though her friends had brought a couple of trinkets for her to try – as the routine demanded, of course – they had gone with the most simple option: her own necklace, with its two golden rings hanging at the base of her throat. Nothing else, nothing more.

The other necklace she had worn for years was currently sitting in the back of her beside table drawer.

She was brought back abruptly to the present when Ruby took her hand and brought her to the hand-dryer next to the sink. She situated her right under the device and it started working as a puff of warm air hit her chest – thank God it worked with some kind of sensor, she wasn't in the mood to press any kind of button every couple of minutes.

"Okay, I don't think we'll have to wait much for this to dry. It's champagne after all – it'll go easy enough."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, champagne is not that bad - don't mind that those guys – and Graham – could totally see my nipples out there. Thank you champagne, great job." Ruby let out a peal of laughter at that.

"Please don't make me laugh, this dress is so tight it might rip!" That only made Emma laugh at her. They were in stitches in question on seconds, just pointing at each other's faces.

That was step number two in the fashion brigade. Check.

"Oh, God." Ruby tried to dry the tears in her eyes without ruining her mascara – even though her hand was already grabbing her purse in search of the make up she always brought with her anywhere she went. "How's the dress going? Is it still wet?"

"It's all wet for you, honey. All for you." Emma mocked in a creepy western's accent, earning another laugh from her friend. She felt the cloth in her hand, treading carefully. "Nah, it's dry already – it looks a bit wrinkled, but whatever."

"Perfect. Your hair though – ugh, come here, I'll fix it. Screw the hairdo, let's hope Mary Margaret doesn't freak out when she sees it." She said while she positioned herself behind Emma and started sticking out pins from the half do they had made her wear earlier. While she worked on her curls, Emma cursed for the hundredth time the guy who had so carelessly thrown her that drink. What the hell had he been doing?

She gripped the sides of the basin and looked at her reflection. "The nerve of the guy. Showing up here drunk – it's not even 10:30!"

Ruby's hand stopped moving. "Emma, do you even know who he was?"

"I don't care who he was, I care that not only did he throw a glass of champagne to my chest, he even laughed at me for it and nearly harassed me!" Her hands balled into fists remembering the nerve of the guy, staring down at her very visible breasts under the very wet piece of clothing and smirking cruelly at her.

"He's one of Graham's friends, you know." Ruby continued messing her locks, going for an informal look. There was no way she was going out of there with another princess-do. No sir.

"Yeah, well, even if Graham is quite a nice guy, his friends don't really have to be as well." Now that she stopped to consider it, he had had an Irish accent. Maybe he was friend with Graham because of that? Maybe they had met there when they were younger and still lived there? She knew Graham had left home when he was 18 to pursue his acting career. She didn't know what his friend did for a living – not that she cared, for that matter, but she was curious to find out if that was the connection between them.

Ruby sighed, hands still in her hair. Emma winced when she pulled on one knot. Great. Karma. Fucking Ella for getting those ideas in her head in the first place. "Emma, you overreacted a bit. He wasn't drunk, I swear, I was talking to him right before you showed up and he was perfectly charming. Way too charming, maybe – but come on, he is Killian Jones!" Her eyes lit up – she even squealed a bit.

The name threw her. "Who the hell is Killian Jones and why does it sound familiar...?"

The brunette left a horrified gasp in response. "EMMA. I talk about these guys every freaking day! Graham was right, you really don't know who they are? Oh my God, I can't believe this." She was even fanning herself. Like one of those girls in ancient movies did when they were scandalized by something. Emma would have found it cute weren't she so confused.

"I don't know okay, I work with too many people to remember every fucking name I hear – but Ruby, let's be honest:" she looked at he right in the eye in the mirror, "you talk way too much, and not everything you say makes it through the filter."

Ruby just put one of her hands over her heart and patted her blond locks, as if petting a cute puppy. A clueless puppy. "I could be offended by that but I'm not. Instead, I'll be the better person and I'll tell you who the guy who spilt his drink on your boobs is."

"Woah. That's quite the deal I've made." Emma grumbled under her breath. Even though she hated to admit she was quite curious to find about the Irish drunkie. Why she did, she would love to know.

The only thing she was sure of was that he was a jerk.

"Shut up. Okay: Killian Jones. Irishman, singer, frontman and vocalist from The Lost Boys. Rings any bells?"

Emma frowned. Where had she heard something about that...? Suddenly, the cheesy comment from the presenter on the radio program came to mind. She groaned. "Oh God. Those guys?"

Ruby squealed, pleased with her reaction. "I knew you would know about them!"

"I really don't, I just heard something about them on the radio yesterday – I mean, I'm sure I've heard some more and maybe one or two of their songs but I'm not really into that kind of music anyway. And surely not into the gossip spread about them."

She saw her shook her head, clearly fighting a smile. "Well, there you are. You officially met Killian professional panty-dropper, club-lover and mystery stubble-wrapped-please-fuck-me Jones. Something to tell your grandkids in the future."

Oh God. Were they really discussing stories to tell future grandchildren? It was worth knocking herself out in the sink. "Sure. That'll be a great story some time. 'And then I threw a glass of Dom Pérignon in his face, kids!'"

Her friend cracked up. "'...But not after he got a great look at my ta-tas, of course...!'"

"RUBY!"

"Ruby? Emma? Are you two in there?" A voice came up from the bathroom door, and they both turned around to see Mary Margaret approaching them. "I've been looking for you two for the last hour! Where have you been? Wait. Emma! What have you done to your dress? It's wrinkled! And your hair?" Every sentence was louder in scale. Emma literally flinched at the dress comment.

"Well, it's a long story involving an a glass of champagne and an annoying leprechaun who was giving us trouble until the blond hot hero saved the day. But hey - look what Ruby did with my hair in a matter of minutes! Isn't she awesome? Let's celebrate her talent, come on guys!" She said, looping an arm around her friend's and joining Mary Margaret at the door. She stared at her with an exasperated face, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth asking, because she took her other arm and walked with them to the banquet hall. Phew. That was close. She wouldn't hear the end of it if she found out about her epic stand down with the rock star.

Just as they set foot in it, an arm waved in their direction in the center of a large group in front of them. "Girls! Over here!" It was David. Making their way over him, carefully trying not to trip over anybody's feet, Emma finally found herself beside her brother. Sensing his gaze, she looked up at him and saw his raised brow. She shook her head and murmured under her breath. "Don't even ask." He chuckled lowly, knowing it'd be best not to bring it up or his fiancé would start the third degree – just for the dress' sake, mind you, not hers. Well, maybe a bit for her, but priorities were priorities, and in Mary Margaret's book, the dresses were first and foremost her babies.

They made small talk while trying some of the canapés they were serving around for a while, until Ella joined them with Thomas to tell them they were leaving – not without the proper gasp and customary "what happened to your dress Emma?!". They were anxious to return to little Alex. Emma smiled wistfully, thinking of the adorable kid. She had babysat for her friends far more times she dared to admit when she was free and in town– she loved it, in fact, and Alex seemed to be rather fond of her as well. Even though she was left a bit sad whenever her parents came to pick her up.

After getting rid of Ruby's unconsolable self and her pouty "But it's so early – and we guys never get to go out like this together - and FOR FREE! Please don't leave!", they finally said their goodbyes, promising to see each other soon and left.

Emma wandered on her own to one of the tabled full of food, inspecting the arranged China displayed arpund in search of some of the goodies she had already tasted – where were those foie cornets with caramelized apple, dammit, they were glorious – she nearly knocked someone in her hunt. "Oh, sorry, I'm really sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going..." When she lifted her head, she recognized the other guy who had been there when the rockstar had spilt his drink on her. Great. Just great.

"It's no problem." He shuffled a bit on his feet, looking out of place. "It's Emma, right? Emma Swan?"

Huh. He knew her? "Yeah. I assume Graham has filled you in?"

"Well, you showed up when your friend was calling out your name. But yeah, you're right, Graham was telling us you've been working together with Glass' last project. Congratulations, by the way. I heard competition was fierce. You must be quite the talent if he chose you instead of other face." He told her with an embarrassed smile.

She stared at him, not sure how to respond to that. He seemed sincere. Well, why would he have to lie in the first place? Maybe he did think she was a serious actress.

Or maybe he was just trying to be extra polite to make amends after his mate's fuck up.

Fuck it.

"Look, um..."

"August. August Booth. I play the keyboards in the group, as I'm sure you don't know." His eyes crinkled at that – right, apparently everybody was aware of the fact that she didn't know who the hell their band was. Whatever, she was not ashamed of not being a crazy hormoned fangirl like Ruby was.

"Right. August. You don't have to play nice, okay? Whatever happened with your friend is no concern of yours, you don't have to come and clean up his mess." She waved a hand like it wasn't really a problem. Don't worry, stranger who got to see more of her than she would ever had shown in the first place, everything was fine. Really.

He looked surprised at this, and even a bit affronted. "I am not. If I had to cover up Killian's messes, I wouldn't be here, I assure you. Whatever you think I'm saying to 'smooth things over', I am not. I really am impressed about your work – I did watch your first movie, you know."

She was absolutely speechless at that. "You did?"

"Yeah. I'm much more into independent movies – and I'm quite a fan of Midas' style..."

Striking up conversation with August Booth was surprisingly easy. They talked for quite a long time – they did share a mutual love for all cinema-related, and he told her a bit about his life as a musician, though she noted he did try not to go into much detail, surely noticing how her jaw clenched whenever he mentioned Killian's name.

She sipped from her drink, her food hunt abandoned for the moment. "So, how many albums you guys got out?"

"The last one on the market is our third. Apparently it's the best one we've ever done, according to The Rolling Stone." He rolled his eyes, as if it were a ridiculous statement. Maybe it was. She wouldn't know, anyway – he could tell her he had won thirty Grammy's and she would have no way to deny it. She really should consider paying attention to the crap MTV showed now and then. Or Ruby for that matter. "The songs in the last album were far more strong and personal, or so they say."

"Do you write them?" She was pretty curious about the songwriting process. It seemed to be something really deep and intimate – not that crap they played in clubs, of course. She found it could be a bit related with the work she did to keep in touch with a character she had to play.

He shook his head, smiling a bit. "I help Killian. He's the mind behind the writing. He has a gift for that." His expression turned a bit somber, but was quickly replaced by a smile and changed topics. "So, when is the movie premiere? I am really excited to watch it, you know. Graham said you were fantastic with the sword."

Emma had to laugh at this. "Oh, don't get me started with the sword. My arm will never be the same after that."

A snort came up from beside her, followed by a mocking voice. "That's what she said."

Oh no.

She was so not ready for those.

She could see August groaning from his spot, extending his arm like he could physically stop whatever it was that was coming their way. Maybe 'Irish asshole ruins my night again'? It had a ring to it. "Killian, please..."

"Oh, don't worry August, I'm not gonna cause any trouble in paradise. I just wanted to compliment miss Swan – your hair looks way better this way, love. You should be thanking me for that." Smirk in place, Killian fucking Jones appeared beside her, hands in pocket – oh, look at that, no drink in hand. That was an improvement. It didn't make her any less weary of him, though.

Her hands balled into fists again. "Oh yeah, thank you, I so wish I had asked earlier for champagne in my face to change my hairdo." She turned to August again, ignoring him. "Why do you put up with him again?"

August shrugged. "He writes the songs."

"That I do."

"And he is the leader. We're all his puppets."

Killian suddenly lost his smirk. "I really hope you're saying that to try to impress the lass." He stared seriously at his friend.

August's expression softened. "You know I don't mean it. But you are kind of a key piece of it."

He seemed to relax at that, his demeanor changing again in a blink. "Yeah, well, I'm the hottest one. What can I say."

Emma watched the exchange, petrified. What the hell had been that? Before she could analyze any of it, her stomach suddenly growled, asking for more of those delicious canapés she had neglected him opting for chatting with the keyboardist instead. The one and only who raised his head and looked at her, amusement clear in his eyes.

"You hungry, Emma?"

"Oh, the endless possibilities of that line..." Killian fucking Jones really needed to shut up. Or she'd make him eat his next flute of champagne. She turned to him, putting her hands on her hips, scowl in place.

"For fuck's sake, I haven't exchanged more than ten sentences with you and half of them were freaking pick up lines – what are you, some kind of walking book of innuendos?"

He couldn't keep that smirk out of his face, now, could he? It seemed like it was stuck forever there. How was it even possible? "I'm sure you'd like to read me if I were, wouldn't you, darling?"

"For the love of..." Palm in her face, she motioned to August again. "I'm just gonna try to find my friends before I throw something at him again." She smiled – for real this time. "It was nice to meet you August, I really hope we see each other – and I'll remind Graham to tell you about the premiere, so you can come and watch it, I'm sure Sydney won't mind."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "It was nice talking to you too Emma. Have a great night. I'm sure we will run into each other sooner than later." He grinned and winked at her. Huh. This guy was actually nice. Not in a flirty way – in a, well, nice way. Gentleman, even.

Not her type to be honest, but he was friend material. Definitely.

Turning on her heels, she walked a couple of feet in the direction she believed her group had been before – wait, how long had she been talking to August? - until she suddenly felt a grip on her arm. "Not so fast, love."

He had to be kidding her. Not again. She breathed heavily, looking at his hand on her upper arm, ignoring the shiver that ran up her spine at the contact. What the fuck was that. She moved her eyes from his hand to his face, noticing, alarmed, how close they were standing. His eyes pierced hers.

"Let. Me. Go," she said between clenched teeth.

"Uh-uh. Not until I've had my say in this." Still holding her arm, he lead her to a more secluded spot in the hall, besides a sculpted fountain – what the hell was doing a fountain in there? Weren't those supposed to be in a garden, or something? Emma was so confused at that point she almost didn't notice that Killian fucking Jones had dropped his hand from her - but not without caressing the length of it, from forearm to wrist. She tried not to show the tremor she felt inside of her. Oh, shit. What the hell was going on?

Attempting to clear her head, she went straight to the point. "What do you want?"

He took another step closer to her. Why did he enjoy cornering her? "Oh, I just wanted to let something really clear, darling: what you did back there earlier, don't think I have forgotten."

She crossed her arms over her chest, defense stance ready. "Oh, like I won't forget what you did."

His gaze turned cold and menacing. "I already told you it was an accident, and at least I tried to apologize."

Emma felt herself snort. Oh, how lady-like of her. Whatever, he had heard her curse more times in the night they had met than Ruth had since she had adopted her.

"Sure you did, and then harassed and insulted me."

He matched her position, arms braced around his torso, his expression turning offhand. "Well, if you hadn't acted like a bitch and accepted my apology in the first place, none of that would have happened. I'd have you know I'm actually quite the gentleman."

At that, Emma had to laugh. He had balls alright. Gentleman. Please. "Oh, so you are not a pervert and a sociopath? I'm mesmerized by this. Please do tell me more." He saw him ground his teeth and adopt a mocking expression. "Look who's talking, Miss I-will-throw-champagne-in-the-face-to-the-first-gu y-who-says-something-I-don't-find-particularly-cha rming. You shouldn't be allowed into occasions like these – you're a danger to whomever you may encounter. Your bitchy mode could go nuts at any moment, and no one would be safe."

Eyes narowing, she considered him, as if inspecting a really rare species of creature. Where had this guy come from? "You actually think you're funny, right? Sorry for bursting your bubble, but you're not." She sighed and made an impatient sound. "Now, please, is this over? Can I go?"

"Of course not. I'm not leaving until you apologize for what you did." The smirk was back. Oh, how she burned to wipe it off his stupid face. Preferably in a painful way.

She was livid. "I am not apologizing. You deserved it."

"Oh, so is that what's gonna be? Good. Then, take kindly some advice, love:" He came closer to her, his lips grazing her ear. Emma wasn't exactly sure why she wasn't moving. She really shouldn't stand that close to him – it only gave him power over her. But if she moved or acted disgusted by the proximity, she'd also look weak to him. So, standing completely still, she waited until he whispered in a rough voice, "you're going down, Emma Swan. Down."

His face was so close to hers, she could nearly feel his scruff on her cheek. Emma, you're in control. Emma, you got this. You've faced assholes like him your whole life. This one just happened to be extremely attractive. And was kind of a rockstar. Whatever. Rockstar asshole.

And how had she dealt with idiots like this before?

Using their own medicine.

She inclined her head, letting her hair fall to the side and exposing her shoulder to his line of sight. She saw from the corner of her eye how his gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary on it, and rapidly shifted to her face, scowling. Huh. He wasn't so easily distracted. He was good, she had to admit it. She wondered if it had something to do with the hundredths of girls who surely threw their selves at him given the chance. Following her plan, she locked her eyes with his and whispered in the same hushed tone he had used earlier to threaten her: "Am I?"

She was pleased to notice a quiet drop in his voice. "Oh yes, you are." Yeah, it was working. Baby steps, Emma. Get down the Irish asshole.

Maintaining the same quiet voice, her eyes fluttering, she added, "and how do you exactly plan to do that?"

He kept his eyes locked on hers, trying to avoid anything that would distract him. Damn. She couldn't be sure if he was falling for it or not. "Where's the fun in telling you? You'll just have to wait and see."

"Let me guess: will you write a song explaining how horrible I am or how poorly I treated you, à la Taylor Swift with every relationship she's ever had?"

His poise broke down and he openly smiled at her. "Now you're just being ridiculous, love."

"Am I?" She dared to match his smile. She had to admit the conversation was plain stupid at this point.

And, in that moment, they heard it.

A click. Followed by a dozen more, in rapid succession.

From a camera.

They froze in the spot, eyes locked to each other, too terrified of the implications of what had just happened. No, no, no, NO. This couldn't be happening. She saw how his expression matched hers exactly – and it didn't actually help to stare at it, even if it was kind of funny in a way. Her head snapped to her right, looking at the pap scurry away in the crowd.

She heard him sigh at her side. "Well. We're screwed."

That, they were.


*hides behind pillow* Please don't kill me!

As it is my birthday today (ugh. Old, wrinkled nini is not amused by this. Whatever.), I present you this chapter! Ta-da!

I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to update after this - not until Monday, cause I'm getting visitors this weekend to celebrate (YAY!) and I won't be able to write. So here, have this at least, my lovely beans.

Hope you all have a fantastic weekend and I cannot thank you enough for your kind messages, reviews, favorites, alerts and so on. You guys are amazing.

P!nk was playing during this chapter's plotting. She gave me some ideas ;)