apologies for the looong delay, life got away from me there - but here is chapter ten! we're rattling along to our conclusion now, I have only two more projected chapters but we'll see how that works out! I want to give a huge thanks, as always, to everyone who leaves kudos or comments or notes on tumblr, you make it an absolute pleasure to keep writing. I also wanted to thank every single one of you who nominated this fic for the Best WIP under 50k category of the CS fanfic awards! I totally screamed when I realised, haha! I haven't been a huge presence around here recently or on tumblr so I won't presume to tell you who to vote for, but if you ~are~ interested in voting for the importance of being idle you can vote here: csfa2016wip-50 thanks everyone, and I hope you enjoy!
She wasn't exactly scouting for guys, not really. Even if she were, this was hardly the place to do it.
David Nolan was possibly one of the sweetest guys Emma had ever met, honest and kind and passionate about his art, his six-string, and his girlfriend — who so happened to be the most important person in Emma's life. His music always seemed to embody the finer points of his character, a gentle soul from somewhere out west with pick-ups and old mustangs and dirt roads. He was a country boy, affectionately dubbed a 'shepherd' by Mary Margaret, straight-shooting and genuine; and his gigs usually attracted the same kind of people. Emma didn't generally attend with the intention of cornering a guy she could bring back to her apartment, not like she did the concerts at the Warehouses. For David she was only ever there for moral support, or she was with Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret was backstage acting as a roadie for as long as he was in town and, well, Emma couldn't help it. It had been a while since she'd had a decent lay. And she'd spent too long thinking about Neal Cassidy today.
(Nearly fourteen months to the day. Was he off somewhere, finding Tallahassee without her? Living without her? Breathing without her?
Asshole.)
If she wore a slightly shorter dress than she might ordinarily among the country crowd there wasn't anyone around to judge her. There just didn't appear to be anyone to notice, either. The venue was nothing like the Warehouses, relaxed, a large room with some rounded tables and a bar along one side, lit in a dim red glow from the florescent bulbs overhead but filled to the brim with quiet patrons. This was a waste of time, but then she'd known that from the off; she shouldn't have bothered putting on make-up either. She'd worked her way through far too many tequila sunrises to make it to the end of the gig, and was getting ready to call it a night. Mary Margaret probably wouldn't get in until morning given she and David usually went back to his place after a show, so there was no use waiting — which was why it would've been the perfect night for a one-and-done.
"Alright Kristoff, hit me with one for the road."
The bartender arched an eyebrow. "You sure about that, Emma?"
She made an unimpressed noise and waved a hand, well aware her vision was already swimming a little. She wanted to sleep like the dead tonight. "Don't be an ass. Give me my shot."
Kristoff clicked his tongue in a way she knew was judgemental, but then he'd always been a bit like that — he was only looking out for her, really. Obediently he placed the salt shaker and a slice of lime on the countertop before pouring the gold liquid into a shot glass in front of her.
"Any chance of seeing that tab tonight?" he mused.
Emma was already shaking salt onto the back of her hand. "Another time, buddy."
Without much ceremony she licked the salt from her hand, quickly threw the shot back and felt the liquid burn before chasing it with the lime. She left the fruit there only for a few seconds, sucking up the juices before dropping it back down into the empty glass. Grabbing her purse, she turned to stand when someone slid into the bar stool right beside hers, the action briefly cutting her off.
Her scrutiny found a smirk, stubble a few days old and bright blue eyes.
"What's a dirty girl like you doing in a nice place like this?"
British, tall, and a voice like dark velvet. Emma hesitated — maybe not a total waste of time, then. "Is that the best you can do?"
"Depends," the man made no secret of his admiring her assets, "can I buy you a drink?"
It felt like there was a few second delay between what her eyes observed and her brain processed, but she gave him a onceover — and probably a non-too-subtle one as well. He wasn't half bad to look at, broad-shouldered with a head of disarrayed raven hair she could imagine running her fingers through, a battered leather jacket and long, ringed fingers. Underneath his shirt she could see a silver chain and a few black-string necklaces and she had a feeling she could surmise just which 'scene' in Storybrooke he'd emerged from. Which did beg the question of why he was here and not down by the Warehouses or at one of the after parties running along the beach.
"No drink," she said. "But you can keep me company."
The man conceded with a grin and Emma settled herself back at the bar, lifting a hand to draw Kristoff back over and angling herself slightly towards the stranger.
"Killian Jones," he said, holding out a hand.
Emma grasped it for only a beat, tingles of anticipation shooting up her spine. Yes, this was somebody she could take home.
"Emma."
"No surname?"
She shrugged, eagerly retrieving the sunrise Kristoff brought over and ignoring his pointed look. "You could be some creepy stalker-guy for all I know."
His left eyebrow quirked upwards, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He could tell she spoke only in jest. "Point taken. Although my question still stands." He nodded at her dress appreciatively. "Isn't that hemline a little short for a joint like this?"
Emma crossed her legs, revelling in the way his gaze raked up her thigh. But her attention was drawn back to his face. "Is that eyeliner?" she parried.
"Aye, you've got me there," he laughed. "But for the record it's kohl."
"Kohl is for boys who don't like the word eyeliner."
Killian tilted his head. "And what do you think about men who wear it?"
Emma shrugged. "I don't have an opinion." She looked up at him through her eyelashes, wrapping her mouth around her straw and taking a few obvious swallows. Killian's eyes darkened. "Do something nice and then I might."
"What about something nasty?"
Emma smirked.
Killian mirrored it. "Are you certain I can't pay for that sunrise?"
She shook her head, mirth pulling her lips into a secretive smile. "I have a longstanding tab."
"For mercy's sake, please pay for the drink," Kristoff interjected, and Emma picked one of the cherries from the top of her glass and threw it at him.
"The grownups are talking, iceman. Scram."
The bartender rolled his eyes and withdrew to a few paces down to talk to another couple watching the show; for a moment Emma felt a twinge of guilt, but she'd been to hundreds of David's shows. What was one where she wasn't paying attention, especially given the look Killian Jones was sending her was downright sinful. He seemed to be amused by her exchange with Kristoff, chuckling to himself as he raised his glass to her — from the shade of the liquid inside it was probably rum. Killian ran a hand through his hair slowly and Emma's mind immediately leapt to her doing the same as her eyes lingered on the movement. From his answering grin he was well aware of the direction of her thoughts.
Deciding turnabout was fair play, Emma shifted so her bare knee was pressed against his. "So what're you doing here, Killian Jones?" she purred. "Doesn't exactly seem like your scene either." Her hand reached out only briefly to run her hand down the edge of his leather jacket.
Killian's own hand shot out to grasp hers before she could withdraw it, immediately starting to play with her fingers, running his thumb over and around them. The contact sent a thrill right through her.
"And what makes you say that?"
She grinned. "That shirt definitely isn't flannel."
"Ah," he chuckled, "but I am wearing timberlands." Killian leaned back so he could lift his black boot into the air and Emma twisted so she could confirm his statement before throwing her head back in laughter, an open and honest sound. Killian used the disturbance to tug her into a standing position, pulling her closer settling her firmly between his legs. Too surprised to immediately resist and too drunk to pull away once her arms came to rest on his shoulders, she let the comfort of this new spot wash over her.
Killian looked at her through half-lidded eyes, his free hand coming to rest on her waist.
"Please tell me your name," he murmured, the timbre of his voice turning smooth and excruciatingly tempting.
Emma gave the barest shake of her head, mirroring the new softness of his demeanour. "What fun would that be?"
Despite her rebuttal his eyebrows raised in challenge, fingers starting to draw delicious circles into her side. "We're just two ships passing in the night, then?"
"Passing closely," she said, punctuating it with a press of her thigh to the seam of his trousers, "I hope?"
Emma felt more than heard the low rumble in the back of his throat, but when Killian leant forward to snap some of the tension she pulled back, laugh tinkling even in her own ears.
"Shots?" she suggested instead, spinning where she stood back to face the bar, Killian's hand falling to the small of her back and staying there.
They stayed there for another hour, trading shots and jests and watching each other with darkened looks over the rim of their glasses, and Emma's steadily clouding vision increasingly tunnelled to only Killian. Killian's eyes, Killian's laugh, Killian's scent — she wanted to commit it all to memory. He was a trooper about her refusal to let him purchase any drinks for her, too. Bought drinks implied debt, and Emma's intention was never geared towards seeing him again. Perhaps he knew that, perhaps he didn't. She scarcely cared either way.
She learnt he was a guitarist and while that initially made her cringe (they were always the hardest to get rid of), then he'd smiled and told her about all the filthy songs he would write about her and the apprehension was entirely chased away. The tequila continued to flow as easily as her laugh, but David had long since finished his set before their lips met.
"And I said to Robin, you can't just pull an excuse like that out of —"
Emma's hands found the lapel of his jacket and she tugged him down to meet her, Killian's arms immediately coming around her waist and massaging into the fabric of her dress, desperate for contact with her skin. His mouth opened almost instantly so she could dip her tongue inside, tasting the spice of rum lining his mouth. Teeth clacked unpleasantly together but still her hands slid up his chest, reaching for his hair and carting her hands through it in a way she'd fantasized about ever since he'd sat down, tugging him ever closer as if she were trying to erase any modicum of space between them. Their mouths continued to slant together but it was the whistles of other bar patrons that had them pulling apart, her fingers closing back around the edge of his jacket and he stumbled forward, a combination of being eager to re-enter her space and the alcohol they'd consumed between them.
Killian found his voice first. "That was —"
Emma didn't let him finish. "My place. Now." She reached for his hand and began tugging him in the direction of the bar, anticipation buzzing under the surface of her skin as he stumbled dazedly after her.
This was a night she was determined to remember. Despite that, she only managed to retain the foggiest of details.
Emma could still hear the thump of Robin's bass drum, the hiss of the hi-hat as he beat out the rhythm to Lavender Rose. It was only a simple accompaniment, the song was simple in its nature, but it continued to tread its way across her subconscious against her will.
Thump. Thump. Hiss.
I call it Lavender Rose.
Emma drifted through the crowded hallways of the house, if it could be called a house — Jefferson's permanent home in Connecticut was far more of a mansion, never-ending stretches of panelled wood and immaculately furnished rooms after rooms after rooms, all full of anonymous faces and noise and the shudder of a bassline blasting out from speakers around every corner. Emma barely acknowledged most of it.
Thump. Thump. Hiss.
She was only there because Neal had insisted she go, not allowing her to duck out and retreat to the bus when she'd worked herself up into such a mood. The after party after their first gig in state had been planned since the tour started (given they would be performing so close to where the bassist for Blackbeard's Revenge lived), and since joining them driving slowly down the east coast the invitation had been cordially extended to the Jolly Rogers, and by association Emma as well. Neal had little else to do and had become very popular with the members of Blackbeard's Revenge, so once he'd confirmed Robert Gold wouldn't be attending he'd agreed to go and had all but dragged Emma along too so she couldn't be left alone with her thoughts.
I call it Lavender Rose.
Emma ducked into a hiding place just past a door jamb, beer in hand, and tried to catch her breath. Objectively it had been a nice song, a great song. Its charm lay in its lack of embellishment, of added ornamentation; it was just Killian and his acoustic and a steady beat from Robin on the drums. It was more about Killian and his expression of feeling rather than the extra bells and whistles the Jolly Rogers usually liked to throw into their songs. It had been an easy listen, and something softer to bring their set into a more rounded production before concluding with the power chords in 'Survivor'. Musically, it was a triumph. The crowd had loved it.
Internally, Emma had freaked out.
The lyrics were simple enough. Pining for a woman, hopeful in tone, describing the effect she constantly had on him all culminating in a description of the scent of her skin. Lavender Rose. Emma's choice of bath scent. Although desperate to immediately dismiss it as the coincidence Neal had initially assumed it was, she knew she couldn't — not with the amount of time Killian's eyes flickered to hers as he performed. He'd done this deliberately, with intent. He had written a song about her.
Killian liked her, sure, she knew that; he was attracted to her. That much had always been obvious. But this was — different. This wasn't sharp banter or lascivious remarks or rum-induced kisses under a pale pink sky. This was genuine emotion, a heartfelt confession. A gamble.
A plea.
Killian Jones cared deeply about her and he'd just declared it to six thousand strangers in Connecticut. And his closest friends. And the object of his affections. Her.
"Fucking hell," Neal had said, and he'd said nothing else until the song was over. Emma had stood with her gaze transfixed, her camera held uselessly in front of her and been unable to do anything but stare and let the melody entirely wash over her as her heart rate began to increase with every rattle on the snare.
She was in too deep, way too deep, Killian Jones had just written a song for her and she'd stood there gaping like a goldfish when she was supposed to be working, like a schoolgirl who'd been singled out in assembly. When the song concluded to loud cheers clamouring from behind her Emma nearly stumbled, shaken back to reality as she was. Neal seemed to notice and was watching her carefully, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something but thought better of it. Silently, Emma begged him not to say anything; that desire went unheeded.
He cleared his throat. "You… okay?"
Emma kept her eyes glued to her camera, pretending she was adjusting settings. "Yep."
"Aren't you gonna go backstage?"
Neal probably expected her to. Given he'd already likely come to the incorrect assumption that she and Killian were involved, not to mention she usually took a break while Blackbeard's Revenge were setting up to go and congratulate the Jolly Rogers for twenty minutes or so, the fact that she was rooted to the spot was definitely unusual. Emma couldn't face the idea of heading backstage, not when she was already in so much of a muddle. She didn't want to look up and see Killian's face at the curtain, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
She couldn't face him, not yet. Not until she knew what she would say.
I call it Lavender Rose.
"Nope." She answered Neal in a clipped tone.
The other man leant against the stage, camera discarded, and Emma could feel his gaze drilling holes into her temple.
"It doesn't have to mean anything, Emma. You know that."
For a moment she lifted her eyes to meet his, giving him a dry look. Like she could ignore this? "Don't be naïve. Of course it will, it has to." Killian had given them traction; whatever vague ghost of an idea the pair of them had been flirting with, he'd pulled it right up another notch. He wanted to be with her, properly. And now she had to answer.
It was all rattling a little bit too far out of her control for her liking.
"It will if you act like this." Neal shrugged, lifting himself up by his arms to perch on the edge of the platform. "If you put up a front or avoid him then you're making it mean something."
He was right, but since she couldn't work out his motivation for pointing out such a thing, Emma chose to ignore him.
"You're literally the last person in the world I want to have this conversation with."
"It's just a song," he persisted, and Emma let out a frustrated sound. "It's not an obligation or a binding contract, hit the breaks for a second."
She threw him a sharp look. "Bet you'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, no," the corner of Neal's mouth turned up in an almost nasty approximation of a smile as he shook his head. "You don't get to do this. Don't lash out at me because you're scared shitless."
"Right, because I wouldn't have nearly as many issues when it comes to opening myself up if it weren't for my last boyfriend dumping me by giving me a criminal record."
Neal clicked his tongue. "You're upset so I'm not going to rise to that."
"Thank fuck for Saint Neal," Emma spat.
The silence stretched only for a few moments, but she wished it lasted longer — where did Neal get off deciding he got to have an opinion on any of it? Even if their circumstances were a little more conventional and he was merely a ghost of boyfriends past, he still didn't get a say over what she did with her private life. They weren't friends. She didn't think it was too unreasonable to say they never would be. He didn't get to caution her, or worse, offer advice, because anything he said mattered less than dust under her feet. Apparently Neal didn't share that sentiment.
"So you like this guy?"
"Not having this conversation."
"Fine, fine." In the corner of her eye she saw him wave a hand, before turning his head to the side of the stage and lifting his shoulders nonchalantly. "But he's hovering by the curtain probably watching for your reaction, so."
Against her will her eyes shot upwards — only to be met with nobody where Neal had indicated.
"You do like him," Neal said triumphantly.
Emma hit him on the shoulder. Hard. "Why are you being such an asshole?"
"I'm trying to stop you from making this a big deal!" he shot back. "A song is a song is a song to an artist Emma, but I can hear you overthinking it from here. I know you. I know you're talking yourself right up to a ledge — you're five private minutes away from cutting him out of your life for good because he stepped up and admitted he gave a shit."
Emma fumed, opening her mouth to hiss out something but Neal was already cutting her off.
"I don't get to say shit about how you should be treated and what you deserve — and I barely even know the bastard. All I know is if it's freaking you out because you don't want this and you don't care about him then that's fine. It's okay. It's fucking do-re-mi and a drum kit, just because he did this doesn't mean you owe him shit. But if you're about to explode because you do like —" He hesitated for barely a second, "because you do like him and it's terrifying then you can work it out by yourself, at your own pace. Don't convince yourself you have to act one type of way in the name of self-sabotage." Self-sabotage? Was that the burning need she felt inside to run, to get out, the rising flood of panic she could feel attempting to close up her throat? "All I care about is you, Emma. You and you looking after yourself because at one point in your life, I was the person you trusted most and I fucked it up."
He pointed needlessly up onto the stage. "That guy, there? He wrote you a song. I spent my last quarter on a jukebox so I could play you Yaz. They could've both been nothing if you wanted them to, you're in control."
She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. She needed to get the hell out of there.
"Do you understand me, Emma? You're in total control."
Emma wasn't sure when he'd dropped down from the stage, but suddenly she was aware of his hands on her shoulders grasping tightly. He was bent slightly so he could look her closely in the eye as if he were imprinting the sentence onto the front of her mind. She was in control. Nothing had to move faster than her. At his silent urging she took a steadying breath, tried to reel in her derailed thoughts ever since she'd heard the words Lavender Rose pour out from the stage.
Somehow, he'd managed to say just the right thing. He'd always had a gift for that.
Emma's voice felt impossibly small when she finally spoke. "Why are you doing this?"
Neal smiled ruefully, letting go of her. "I just want you to be happy. In whatever form that takes. Fuck knows you deserve it."
Uncomfortable with the intensity in his chestnut stare, Emma folded her arms and looked away, camera hanging loosely around her neck. Killian wrote her a song, fine. But Neal was right. There was a part of her already gearing up to climb into a cab and pay the fare all the way back to Maine just to get away from it — he'd lied to her before, he'd hurt her before, and having Neal walk straight back into her life and bring back all of the pain she'd pushed down for so long didn't exactly help matters.
She was terrified. She was allowed to be.
Mostly, she had to decide if the risk was worth opening herself up to the possibility of being happy again. Toying with the idea while he'd been just a charming guitarist playing her a one-man show in a warehouse wasn't enough; she had to give Killian a real answer. Whatever that meant. She and Neal didn't speak again for the remainder of the set, and when Emma tried to quietly suggest she would retreat to the bus instead of joining the others at the after party at Jefferson's he had shut her down point blank.
"No chance. I'm not leaving you alone with that survival instinct of yours."
Which left her roaming the halls of Jefferson's mansion, a bottle of beer in hand, confronted with hundreds of faces of fans and executives alike chattering aimlessly or swaying to undefined waves of music that appeared to ricochet off the very walls of the house. She'd arrived later than most, she knew that, convincing Neal to stop for a caffeine break if she was expected to be up for another few hours and he had reluctantly agreed, if only because it was a small price to pay to keep her active and out there. With that in mind she was almost certain the Jolly Rogers and Blackbeard's Revenge must already be in the house, but their attentions were likely being constantly diverted by the hundreds of people who had flocked into the mansion.
No sooner had she thought it than her eyes locked with the familiar electric blues of Killian Jones, chin lifted into the air as if he'd been trying to gain a little height over the crowd. The notion that he'd probably been looking for her twisted uncomfortably in her gut, only to be confirmed when he opened his mouth. She was sure his lips had spelt out Swan before he'd started to squeeze his way through the hallway but she didn't stick around to find out.
Emma ducked through the doorway into another room, bright orange tiled floors and immaculately clear surfaces aside from empty cans, bottles, and a large rubbish bag lifted from the trash can and steadily filling with discarded pieces of food. A few individuals were already hovering near the work surfaces engaged in chatter a little quieter than the other rooms she had slipped through, and Emma enjoyed the brief moment's peace.
But apparently Killian knew something about the layout of the house that she didn't.
In only a few moments his taller form was in front of her, and she hadn't the slightest idea from where he'd sprung. Her eyes lifted almost painfully slowly from his chest all the way up to his face, where his mouth hung open in light surprise — he'd been eager to talk to her, they both knew why, and it appeared now she was standing right there he had no idea what to say.
Emma found herself entirely mute, almost afraid of what might come out of his mouth. A tremble ran itself through her shoulders.
Killian tapped the edge of his beer can with his other hand decisively. "Emma, about tonight," he murmured, "I —"
She never found out what he'd meant to say as suddenly Charles Blackbeard and Isaac Heller slung into the picture, with the former draping his arm around Killian's neck. Killian let out a noise of frustration, his eyes briefly turning skyward.
"Jolly good show tonight, Jones," Blackbeard smirked, his arched eyebrow the silent request for acknowledgement of his pun; he didn't get one from either Emma or Killian.
"That new number was, ah," Isaac tilted his head to the side, as if searching for the appropriate word, "dinky."
It wasn't exactly a compliment and Emma could see Killian's shoulders bristle — but his eyes remained focused on hers.
"Aye, well," he said, barely noticing the others, "I was just trying to find out what Emma thought."
Two extra pairs of eyes rolled to look at her, one calculating and one amused, and Emma felt her cheeks begin to warm and was sure the tops of her ears were reddening. She was spared from having to fumble her way through a response when suddenly another arm threaded through hers and she turned to face the sharp expression of Tina Bell.
"C'mon, Ems — shots?"
Whether Tina had any idea just which scenario she'd rescued her from Emma had no idea, but she mutely nodded and cast Killian only one apologetic look before allowing herself to be dragged away. As she moved slowly out of earshot she began to hear Blackbeard suggesting some melodic changes to be made to Killian's new song and she felt a twinge of regret.
She just wasn't ready yet. Fuck knew when she would be.
Tina led her over to a glass cabinet, various bottles lining its shelves and she tugged it open.
"Choose your poison," she grinned.
Emma's gaze skimmed the alcohol available —if she was honest, her stomach was unsettled and she didn't particularly like the look of any but found herself blindly selecting one all the same.
"Sambuca?" Tina looked like she wanted to laugh. "You really aren't having a great night, are you?"
Her tone implied some greater knowledge, but Emma couldn't get a proper read on her as she was reaching into another cupboard for a pair of shot glasses.
She'd never exactly made a point of hiding what kind of bath products she used, and as the only other girl showering in proximity to her Tina was probably the most likely of the Jolly Rogers to know. But did she? Although even then, it probably didn't take a genius to work out who Lavender Rose was about, her shampoo aside. Killian was about as subtle as a freight train.
"You know," the other woman started, twisting the lid off before pouring into the first glass, "we weren't exactly a band that formed naturally. We weren't all friends at first, just friends with Killian. He's always been a bit angsty, Robin's wife had just died, and August — well," she laughed lightly to herself. "August was probably just bored."
Emma felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
"But my point is, they didn't start this to make it big. They started this as a hobby, to get themselves through something difficult. Some bull about the catharsis of music, who the fuck knows."
Having finished pouring the shots, Tina made no move to hand one to Emma just yet, instead turning to face her with her green eyes as shrewd and unreadable as ever. Tina had always been the hardest for Emma to connect with, to tell when she was being genuine — she was all jagged edges, like her, and she held her cards close to her chest. Sometimes Emma got the distinct impression the other woman didn't like her, and other times she wrote off the sensation as standard prickly behaviour. They were pretty similar, after all. Emma could recognise someone who had been burned before.
"Me?" she continued, her forefinger drifting around the edge of one of the glasses, "I was always in this to win it. I wanted to sing and I had some pretty fucked up ideas about how I should be doing it, too. Got myself in with some rough characters telling me I should be acting a certain way if I wanted to make it, had to be a certain someone willing to do the dirtiest things."
The music still reverberated through the kitchen, but here Emma felt like noise was slowly drowning out. She had no idea why Tina was telling her this, or what she was even trying to tell her, but something about her countenance made Emma not want to stop her.
"I had nobody looking out for me, no family, nobody who believed in me. This time three years ago I was sunk as low as you could go."
Emma eyed the other woman carefully. "Why are you telling me this?"
Tina picked up the two shots and Emma made to take one of them, but the blonde pulled it out of her reach.
"I didn't have anybody," she said, "until Killian."
Emma's hand dropped back to her side, and something in her chest clenched tight. She didn't want to hear more proof of Killian's unwavering strength of character, not when she just wanted ten minutes alone to make her own decision.
"I couldn't even believe in myself until I met him. He gave me a family, a home. He can be a right royal pain in the ass when he wants to be but he's a good man who gave us all something worth surviving for."
Finally, she pushed the small glass towards Emma, who took it hesitantly.
She shrugged then, affecting an air of nonchalance that didn't ring true with the sentiments she'd just expressed — especially when her eyes were just as hard as ever.
"So don't fuck up, okay?"
Tina clinked their glasses together before tossing her shot backwards. Emma followed only the breath of a second behind, resisting the urge to cough against the immediate sting that hit the back of her throat.
The fact that all the Jolly Rogers apparently appeared to be on board with the idea of Emma and Killian didn't do anything to alleviate the pressure she felt to come to a decision, and fast.
Once they were done, Tina returned the bottle to its place on the shelf and took her arm, dragging her back into the party.
The night wore on without her running into Killian again, and not by any lack of effort on his part; whenever he made an effort to segue into a conversation she was involved in or pull her out from a crowded room she somehow managed to duck his every attempt. In fact, she'd taken to using other Jolly Rogers as chaperones perhaps without their knowledge — there was no chance Killian would try cornering her about Lavender Rose if she was walking around with one of his friends, after all. It was part of the reason she found herself clinging tightly to Robin's arm as they walked into one of the sitting rooms, her grinning at some anecdote he was offering her about his young son, only for him to break off as he read the atmosphere of the room they'd entered at around the same moment she did.
Blackbeard, Isaac and Malcolm stood leant against one wall, drinks in hand and amusement colouring their expressions while Killian sat perched on the arm of the sofa, a sofa Neal was currently lying across. Tina stood at the back, saying nothing as she stared into the bottom of the bottle she was holding. The air crackled with tension, and they'd walked in on Killian throwing something rather heated at the trio.
"—Say what you like," he snapped, "but at least none of us bloody scammed our way into a record deal." His cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet, and Emma knew the look well, suspected he'd probably had a little too much to drink by this point. Guilt spiked in her chest for a moment, so her grip on Robin's arm tightened.
"Scammed?" Blackbeard held up his hands in a bemused gesture, although his eyes were shrewd. He made a show of looking around at his bandmates. "I don't think any of us have ever done that, have we?"
Killian scoffed, waving a flippant hand. "Please. Everyone knows what happened with Eric. He felt you were compromising yourselves artistically so you could sign with Gold and you chucked him."
Emma spotted Robin wincing out of the corner of her eye, as if he too wasn't entirely sure whether he should be interjecting or backing out of the room. Thankfully it appeared to be a slightly more private area of the house, and the party continued to rumble on behind them without any real disturbance.
"We and Eric did come across some creative differences, to be sure —"
"I'd rather play in a garage with my friends for the rest of my life than act anything like you lot and succeed in this industry." Killian topped this comment off by downing the remainder of his glass (rum, Emma was certain) and setting it on the floor.
Behind him, Emma could see the moment Blackbeard's stance hardened, and he folded his arms.
"So confident are you, then," he began loudly, "of your position on the moral high ground?"
"Where you're concerned?" Killian spread his arms. "Sure."
"At least none of us would ever sleep with another man's wife."
Killian was on his feet in seconds, the movement rippling out in the room as Robin took a step forward and Tina pushed herself away from the wall — in a mirror of the sudden action Blackbeard took a sharp step away, echoed by Isaac and Malcolm. Irrespective of them Killian turned, his eyes seeking out the only person who didn't move. Neal.
"You do remember me," he gaped.
Neal moved into an upright position, offering only an agitated shrug at being suddenly put on the spot. "How could I forget you?" he scowled. "It was bad enough my dad married a woman nearly my age, but then to have her cheat on him so brazenly?" He spluttered in indignation. "It was humiliating!"
Emma found herself rallying to Killian's defence. "Neal!"
"Neal?" Killian frowned. "I thought his name was Bae… Neal?" Emma blanched as she spotted the moment he put all the pieces together, cursing her slip up. "The jewellery thief?"
Neal whirled around to face her. "You told him that?"
"Hey, I am allowed to tell anyone I want!" she shot back.
In the corner, Blackbeard and his bandmates all sported matching grins. Isaac even rubbed his hands together with glee. "Seems like we've all got quite a few skeletons in our closet. I wonder how excited Mr. Gold will be to hear we invited his wife's lover with us on tour?"
"He probably already knows," Neal said, lifting a placating hand, "just leave it." While Emma appreciated the gesture for what it was, an attempt at diffusing the situation, it was too little too late as far as she was concerned. Especially given it was his fault the members of Blackbeard's Revenge even possessed that information.
"I suppose while we're trading in honesty," Malcolm then pushed off the wall to sidle up towards Tina, "got anything to add?"
She gritted her teeth. "You can shut your mouth, Pan, or I'll shut it for you."
Emma could see the whole situation spinning wildly out of control, and she imagined Robin was just the same, but it seemed as utterly useless as trying to stop a car crash from the first moment of collision as tensions from weeks of snide jibes and petty rivalries, spurred on by the liberation of alcohol, began to boil over.
"You wouldn't dare," Pan was smirking, "you need me. Need us. Everyone knows you're just using our fame to try and catapult your pathetic excuse for a band into somewhere worthwhile in the business." Robin left her side in that instant and was by Tina in a flash, a hand on her arm trying to anchor her from lunging forward, if the fury in her eyes was any indication. "But then you know all about sleeping your way to the top, don't you Tina?"
Robin wasn't enough, she lurched forward all the same.
"Why you little shit —"
The drummer clamped his arms around Tina's to stop her throwing a fist at Malcolm Pan, who barked with laughter and darted out of her reach on nimble legs.
"Look," Emma said, trying to insert a voice of reason, "maybe we should all just calm down —"
To her irritation it was Killian who cut her off, stepping forward until he was a hair's breadth from Malcolm and towering over him.
"Just what is it you're trying to say, mate?"
The younger man was completely unintimidated, wiry grin staring back up at Killian.
"We're saying, mate," he mocked, "you pick very fine company. I wonder which would be easier to get into bed, Tina or your lovely Emma—"
There was a bone-wrenching crack, a crash of shattered glass, and all hell broke loose.