This chapter has been altered slightly (incredibly slightly) to account for changes in the overall arc. It does not require a re-read, but if you were wondering about David's lack of knowledge about Regina's issues in this chapter, and his clear understanding later, this has now been cleared up.
David followed the officer down the dimly lit corridor. The jangling of the man's keys with every step that he took, roused the overnight drunkards from their fitful slumber. Groans and moans could be heard from the dank cells on either side with iron bars, rusted over and flaking, dividing them from pre-dawn brawlers and gutter dwelling crack addicts.
As they rounded a corner his eyes met the uneven view of a scarred man in ripped overalls wearing a plaid shirt over broad biceps. The track marks beneath his rolled up sleeves were angry and raw and the bags under his eyes expressed the regrets of his late night high.
David rolled his eyes as they approached the only cell at the station that held a lone occupant. If he didn't know her as well as he did, he'd have thought the isolation overkill; but considering she was a woman - the only one currently residing at the seventy-seventh precinct's exclusive drunk tank - he figured it was likely for the best.
He also didn't want to have to deal with the outcome had she been saddled with a roommate she decided not to like.
Stepping around the police officer who had stopped directly in front of the iron bars, David released a sigh. Against the wrought-iron crossbar, a petite pair of textured leather, size six stiletto boots perched comfortably against the bars; the nine inch heel poking out from the confines of the cell.
Attached to the boots at her ankle, was a long pair of toned calves clad in torn, wet-look black skinny-jeans on the hips of the sleeping woman. Her dark hair was splayed out against the pinstripe pillow and her studded leather jacket with the torn right sleeve was rested over her for warmth. She was on her back, mouth open and every now and then she released the faintest snort.
It was David's way of knowing she was out cold.
He cleared his throat, meeting the officer's eye when the woman beyond the bars didn't so much as flinch at the sound.
"Reg," He called and she shuffled, repositioning her feet, crossing them over the opposite way before shuffling back against her pillow. She never opened her eyes.
With an annoyed growl under his breath he gave her boots a forceful shove, knocking them from the bars and in turn, rolling her off the small bunk. She let out a loud yelp as she hit the floor, thankfully landing on her jacket that did little to soften the blow but to prevent the cold concrete from impacting her bare skin.
"What was that for?" She grumbled, picking herself up, scratching at the back of her head.
Her hair was a mess, teased and brittle from re-application of an unnecessary amount of hairspray. Her over-sized Rolling Stones tank-top hung low off one shoulder, exposing the strap of her burgundy bra and a long chain fell around her neck that held a heavy, antique silver locket.
"That," He smirked. "Was for the phone call I get at seven am from the police stating that you've been hauled in, for the third time this month." His eyes progressively narrowed as his clenched fists raised to rest on his hips. "Indecent exposure, Regina," He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
"There was nothing indecent about it." She grumbled, resting her arms on the bars.
David rolled his eyes.
"Besides, the time isn't my fault. You're my emergency contact," She shrugged, standing up straight and meeting his eye. When her head tilted up - with an obnoxious ray of sunlight striking her deep auburn eyes - she squinted and he could see the dark patches of her smeared eyeshadow. "There wasn't an option on the form to select a time of day for the call to take place."
He watched her as she gingerly tugged her jacket on, pulling it straight as she avoided further contact with the early morning sunlight.
"Come on," He said in a softer, gentler tone. "I've got your bail, lets get out of here."
"Thank you, officer." She smiled sweetly at the man as he slid the bars aside but turned her glare to David when he grasped her upper arm gruffly and tugged her toward the hall.
"This is getting ridiculous, Regina." He hissed, referring to her current predicament and the fact that he was up at an ungodly hour, sporting loafers, a pair of worn sweat pants and a university hoodie that had a hole in the right armpit he could fit three fingers through.
"Oh get off your high horse, Prince Charming." She spat, reefing her arm free and storming ahead of him. The sound of her heels heading from concrete to faded linoleum only halted when she stopped to collect her things.
When her overstuffed handbag was handed to her over the counter, the first thing she did was dig for a packet of cigarettes. He studied her as she smacked the base of the packet against her palm, knocking out a smoke and lifting it to hold between her plump lips; the lipstick worn down to a faint line of ruby red at the corners of her mouth.
"You coming, or what?" She spoke around the cigarette, shoving the forms back across the counter to the awaiting clerk without even looking at what she was signing.
She'd been there so many times, he was fairly certain she could quote the sign-out sheet in her sleep; on a few occasions, when she was really drunk and flaked out on his couch, he was somewhat certain that she had.
"You know, Mary's going to have my hide for bailing you out again." He commented, holding the door for her as they stepped out of the building; looking at her out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she shoved a pair of sunglasses over her protesting eyes before lighting up her cigarette.
"You know what," She blew a puff of smoke in his face. David just rolled his eyes and fanned the cloud of acrid poison away. "Your little goodie two shoes girlfriend can kiss my ass, David."
David let out a long breath, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from leaping to Mary-Margaret's defence. He knew the two women had their issues and he knew, as long as one remained the love of his life and the other, his best friend; he was going to be trapped right in the middle of their feud. It was better for his sanity to say nothing.
The fact that he was part of the problem was the main reason he kept himself silent when Regina was like this. It angered her that he never told Mary-Margaret the truth, that she refused to see it no matter how glaringly obvious it was. So they went on hating each other, Mary went on behaving like there was nothing wrong with the world and David, for all their sakes, kept his mouth shut.
The fact that he was part of the problem was the main reason he kept himself silent when Regina was like this. It angered her that he never told Mary-Margaret the truth, that she refused to see it no matter how glaringly obvious it was. So they went on hating each other, Mary went on behaving like there was nothing wrong with the world and David, for all their sakes, kept his mouth shut.
"Where is the little princess, anyway?" She released another long drag of smoke, picking at a fleck of tobacco that came free of the filter, from the edge of her lip. Asking the question even though he knew she didn't care for the answer.
"She's at her Dad's," He started and noticed how Regina's shoulders visibly stilled. She didn't stop walking, but her posture had gone rigid and the hand that raised her cigarette to her lips shook just slightly.
"Right," Her voice croaked and David put it down to spending half the night in a dusty cell, warmed to her bones by two-thirds of a bottle of vodka chased by an innumerable number of Jaeger bombs. Not to mention that the crowd the previous night had actually called for the rarity of an encore, leaving her hoarse even before she'd started on the shots. He wasn't about to touch the idea that it was anything else.
"The car's this way," He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb; back to the carpark with the keys dangling from his hand as she started to head in the opposite direction.
"I think i'll walk," She waved her hand over her head, not looking back. "Thanks for the bail-out."
"Your place is over a mile away." He shouted after her but Regina ignored him, setting out along the pavement, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.
"Do you think she's gonna show tonight?" Emma asked, hefting a crate of vodka bottles onto the scuffed wooden bar and looking across to Neal. His dark-rimmed eyes blinked, a thought passing through as he opened his mouth to respond.
"She'll be fine." David stated as he walked past, effectively cutting off any response Neal may have had.
"You don't know that." Emma shared a look with Neal before racing off after David. "How many nights has it been? Three, four? She's getting more and more unreliable."
"She'll be here."
"Last night was a fluke, David." Emma grumbled. "The fact that she didn't stuff up the lyrics was also a fucking blessing," She tilted her head. "The vodka bottle on the stage was a bit of a let down, but come on."
David didn't mention that he'd spent the morning at the police station, talking the cops out of hitting Regina up for repeat offence charges. He knew she was on her last legs as far as Emma and Mary were concerned and admitting he'd bailed the woman out yet again, was not going to go very far towards clearing her reputation.
"She's going through a lot."
"Of alcohol." She groused and David narrowed his eyes down at her.
"What do you want me to do, Emma? I know you two don't get along all that well, and I know you hate to admit it, but she's the one they come to see."
Emma rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest and jutting out her lip almost petulantly, looking away from him like he was her father, scolding her for speaking out of turn.
"She's spiralling out of control."
David released a long breath. "She's had a lot on her plate, this will pass."
"Before or after you find her dead in her living room, face-down in her own vomit?" She looked at him in askance and David released a sigh.
"It won't come to that."
"Yeah, well, you'd better hope it doesn't because I'm pretty sure this whole thing you've got going on where you insist on holding Regina's hand for everything is eventually going to tire Mary out."
David narrowed his eyes. "Has she said something to you?"
"No," Emma tilted her chin up, defiantly. "But it's obvious, David, you're eventually going to have to choose and we both know, if Regina doesn't clean up her act, the one who's really going to suffer, is you."
Emma stormed off, kicking over a broken light fixture with her heavy, heeled boot as she headed back towards the bar.
David slumped down on an overturned milk-crate, dropping his shoulders and scrubbing a hand over his face as though the weight was starting to finally get to him, weighing him down to the ground with the struggles of keeping both Regina and his own relationship, afloat.
Emma was right, he knew that; but he couldn't help but feel Regina needed more time. Ever since they were kids, banging drums in her foster parents garage, he'd known Regina was an emotional person; but she always wanted for love.
Since high school she'd talked a tough game, her dark makeup a poor mask for a sadness more potent than he could imagine. When she'd found Daniel, he thought that it was finally her chance to be happy - to kick aside the scars of her youth and finally be able to really smile.
The only times he'd ever seen pure joy in her eyes was when she was singing; or when she was looking at Daniel.
He'd held her to his chest, his broad hand tangled in her hair as she'd sobbed, smelling of her foster father's christmas scotch with tracks of mascara pouring down her face. He'd wrapped her in his coat, guarding her from the chill as they'd lowered Daniel's body into the ground.
She didn't talk about that night; she didn't talk about Daniel at all. But David knew Regina and he knew that she was hurting. It may have been over a year but he still felt the stab of pain in his heart when he looked into her eyes to see they were empty.
Empty, hollow and cold.
He knew she was still in there, somewhere; he could still see that same old beauty in her when she sang the old songs. Her eyes would light up like she'd slipped back in time, taking her heart to a place where it wasn't so irrevocably broken.
He was the last person in the world capable of telling her it was time to move on, but he feared he was the only one that could.
Killian dragged himself and his duffle out of the taxi, carefully counting out the fare dollar for dollar and tossing each note onto the passenger seat. The driver gave him a narrow glare, clearly sporting for his tip; when none was forthcoming he cursed the frugality of the Irish under his breath and pulled away from the curb with a screech of burning rubber on asphalt.
Killian flipped the man two fingers, screwing up his nose as the car peeled around the corner. Dropping his bag to the ground at his feet, he looked around for the best spot to find an inexpensive place to sleep; but seeing there was a club far closer to him than the nearest motel - it's glowing vacancy sign standing tall at least three blocks away - he tossed his duffle over his shoulder and decided he'd start first with a pint.
With his drumsticks in his back pocket and his duffle over his shoulder, Killian looked up at the facade of the old building; the old red bricks were scored and flaking. What little of the render that still remained was riddled with cracks, chips and stained orange from the rusting downpipes.
The sign that ran down the front of the building, glittering with the glow of it's curious title, flickered on the letter A, alternating between 'The Carlyle' and 'The C rlyle'. He smirked, turning his eyes to the fire exit just to the side of the building, jutting out over the alley.
He could hear voices filtering down; they were angry, shouting back and forth with gestures so sweeping he thought the woman was about to go flying over the rail with how hard she was waving her arms. The man just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, silent as a church mouse as he took the verbal tirade.
Killian tilted his head, curious, but decided to spare the couple their dignity and gift his rumbling stomach with a stout ale and a packet of crisps. He would have liked a hot meal, but with his budget being what it was, the choice between beer quality and nutritional appetisers was a no-brainer.
He was met at the door by a pretty brunette, her long hair was curled at the ends and her shorts riding so high on her fishnet-clad thighs he wasn't sure they counted as shorts. Everything she wore was red, from her makeup to her tank-top to those leather shorts. She added almost a foot to her height with platformed stilettos but even though she wasn't his type, he smiled broadly in her direction, thanking her for taking his duffle and exchanging it with a pre-loved ticket stub.
"Welcome to Neverland," She smirked, fluttering her lashes as he stepped past her.
"Thanks," He muttered, winking his eye and continuing on into the club.
"Regina, we're on in five." David called through the door of the dressing room. Regina barely looked up from her toes, perched on the edge of the coffee table where a pile of small aluminium foil squares sat stacked on each other beside a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff. Setting his eyes on the display, he signed. "Really?"
"Who are you, my mother?" She slurred, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes.
"Can you even go on in this state?"
Regina pulled herself to her feet, bumping the table with her shin as she pushed past it. One of the untouched baggies spilled onto the floor, leaving a faint dusting of the stark white powder. She didn't notice, staggering past David in shoes a lesser woman would have already twisted her ankle in, with a slap to his shoulder.
"I'm fine." She promised, patting him once again for good measure before heading out into the hall. David just sighed, letting his shoulders sag. He surveyed the room with his eyes; her clothes were everywhere. Shoes were scattered across the floor with the remnants of cracked pistachio shells, some M&Ms ground into the carpet and the contents of her handbag half buried under the small sofa.
Her cigarettes, vodka and an old credit card lay in the wasteland of white powder on the glass table top and her favourite leather jacket was dangling off the back of her chair. The place was a mess and it made his heart sink.
"Pint o' lager please." Killian grinned over the bar, winking his eye at the lean blonde in the tight button down black vest, setting a shot of absinthe alight on the edge of the bar.
"Sure," She responded over the din, grabbing the customer's money off the counter before heading his way. "You're Irish, right?" She questioned as she pulled on the lager tap, not even bothering to look into the glass. Killian's eyebrows rose, impressed, as she pulled the entire pint without breaking eye contact, bouncing on her heels proudly as she slid the glass across the counter.
"Thanks," He scratched his cheek. "And yeah, born and raised."
"Hot."
"I'm Killian."
"Emma." She held her hand out to shake and Killian took it, glancing over her shoulder as he noticed the small sign written in chalk behind the bar.
"You've got open mic night?"
"Wednesdays and Sundays." She nodded. "You sing?"
"No," He chuckled, reaching behind himself to drag his drumsticks from his back pocket and strum them on the bar. "But I play."
"Maybe you should come back on Sunday then," She smirked. "Tonight's all about the Royals, so you'll have to wait in line."
"The Royals?" He questioned, watching her long blonde ponytail bob as she dashed towards the other end of the bar to serve a customer before heading back towards him with a wicked turn of her lip.
"Yeah, they're local legends really. Almost hit it big a few months ago," She met his eye for a moment, seemingly stopping herself from carrying the story too far. She cleared her throat, glancing away from him before looking him in the eye again. "you should really hang around for a listen, they're pretty good."
"Perhaps I will."
Emma smirked, watching him tapping his drumsticks on the edge of the bar, against the beat of the music currently playing. "Who knows," She grinned. "they're looking for a new drummer, if you're good."
"Who knows indeed, love."
Killian spun around on his stool, continuing the made-up beat against his outer thighs as he watched the crowds shuffling in. The bar crammed for a time, shouts hollering over the top of shouts as the blonde and her colleague - a broad shouldered man who touched her hips with familiarity as they passed each other in the tight space - filled orders in every direction.
Drinks were carried onto the narrow dance-floor, and arms were raised to the ceiling as the music came to an abrupt halt and the club was shrouded in darkness.
Killian's eyes closed with rapture the moment her voice came out over the sound system. The club remained in darkness but it didn't matter all that much to him as he listened, taken in completely by the first few bars.
It sounded like salted caramel, sweet and sultry, but strong. The sound coiled in the back of her throat, swirling like dragons fire, before she let each sound free, one by one; one burn would heal before another note would char his skin.
The lights erupted and his eyes shot open, resting on the posed woman stage centre; a strum of the electric guitar, two shots of fireworks that fizzled by the side of the stage. By the looks of the place, he could see they were lucky to afford even that, but the quality of her voice wasn't tainted by the lack of fanfare.
There was another pause, a bar of silence as she stood with her eyes cast down. She was a vision in black leather, buckles and the faintest touch of a lilac bra beneath her oversized tank-top, featuring 'The Clash' for one night only'.
He could see the tattoo against her ribcage but he couldn't see what it was. As she jumped to the beat of the music, singing to the adoring crowd of writhing bodies, undulating like a tide, he could feel the slow burn crawl up his neck.
A heeled boot, impossibly high, pressed to the top of a stage level speaker as she threw her head back, her body arching with the strength of her voice, her mic cord resting on the swell of her breast as he watched the smooth lines of her throat struck by the force of the spotlight. She tapped at the mic, each finger adorned with heavy silver rings, tapping along to the beat to keep her in time.
She strutted across the stage and Killian was mesmerised. He'd halted his strumming long ago, holding his drumsticks still against his thighs as she paraded across the narrow stage to the tune of a reworked Stones classic. She bounced at the centre, encouraging the crowd to copy her movements as she did Mick Jagger far more justice than he did himself.
When she disappeared from the stage after three sets and a brief call back, he felt a piece of his heart was lost. He tried to grasp for it, clenching his fist against the open edges of his plaid shirt, clinging to the long silver chain that rested there. But it was no use. An emptiness had overcome him in the brief pause between her band's departure and the sound of the DJ coming back to close out the night.
"The Royals," Emma stated as he turned back around, mouth still partly hanging open. "Told you they were pretty good."
Killian blinked up at her. "What is her name?"
"Who, the lead?" Emma eyed him, continuing to scrub a glass with a tea towel. "You don't want to know."
"I think I do."
"She's more work than she looks."
"Please just tell me."
Emma sighed, resting the glass down on the counter with a brief expression that he couldn't quite place. She was about to open her mouth to answer, when her attention was stolen over his left shoulder; her eyes blinking wide as though she'd been caught in the act of something deplorable.
"Regina, Hi." She greeted; her tone overcompensating for the fact the woman they had just been talking about, currently had her chest pressed to his shoulder in the loud, crowded club. Killian studied her profile as her dark eyes surveyed the blonde with suspicion.
"One." Was all she said, raising her finger that was decorated with the elaborate head of an elephant, to emphasise her request.
Emma rolled her eyes. "You already had one, Regina."
"Don't piss me off, Swan." She growled and Killian could feel the vibration like a cat's purr, where her sternum pressed into his shoulder.
"Just give it to her, babe," The other bar tender, the man with the broad arms and grabby hands, made a reappearance. "David's out back, he'll make sure she doesn't go through the whole thing, right Regina?"
As he spoke, Emma pulled a full bottle of vodka from below the counter, setting it on the bar with unnecessary force. Regina waited, eyeing the pair, until she had her lean fingers - painted with harsh black polish - wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
"Nice to know you two lightweights care for my continued good health," She sneered and Killian could tell the comment was anything but sincere. "But David can kiss my ass." She said with venom before dragging the bottle from the bar and turning on her heel.
"She's beautiful." Killian sighed and Emma's companion let out a snort of laughter.
"If raging alcoholics with anger management issues are your thing, she's totally hot." He chuckled, wandering off down the bar to serve a waving customer. Emma sighed, meeting Killian's eye with a gentleness that mirrored her softer tone.
"Neal's not wrong, but Regina's not so bad," She sighed. "She does have some issues and it's not really my place to say, but she has a good heart, under all that," She paused, gesturing with her hands, searching for just the right word. "aggression."
Killian continued to watch the woman as she tripped on her own foot, pushing past the heavy velvet curtain and disappearing behind the stage. He looked back to Emma, his eyes pleading.
"I need to talk to her."
"Seriously, now is not the best time."
"Come on," He whined but Emma shook her head.
"David would never go for having you back there and Regina's not gonna come out again tonight."
"Who's David, her boyfriend?"
She scrunched up her nose. "More like a big brother. He was the guy on bass," Emma looked at him sympathetically, resting her elbows on the bar. "He's crazy protective. You should wait for Sunday. She'll be here."
Killian sighed dejectedly, resting his empty glass on the counter and watching it go as Emma picked it up and rested it in the sink.
"Get some sleep, go out, see the city and come back on Sunday."
"Know any good places to sleep?"
"What's your budget?" She smirked.
Killian turned his pockets inside out, counting out his notes and coins with a frown. "Twenty five bucks and a linty Oreo."
Emma chuckled. "Granny's, over on ninth. Tell her I sent you."
"How do I get there?"
"Three blocks, turn right; you'll know it when you see it."
To Be Continued