Chapter 1: Wait A Minute, Let Me Finish
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It's snowing. It's Minnesota. Of bloody course it is.
Killian Jones scrubs his hand over his face as he looks out the front window of his tattoo shop. It's called The Jolly Roger and it's tucked away beneath an overpass near the industrial part of town where GPS fails more often than not, but it's no less beloved by his clients for all of that. Usually, his books are filled months in advance. Usually, he has a fairly solid waitlist of die-hard loyal clients that will take any opening at all on the rare occasion he has a cancellation.
But on Thanksgiving? In the first major snowstorm of the year? Apparently not.
He should have closed up and gone home as soon as he walked in and heard the cancellation voicemails from the few clients he had lined up for the day. He probably shouldn't have even scheduled them in the first place, but honestly, what else was he going to do?
No family, no friends- at least none he considered close enough to darken their door on a holiday. A few folks had offered, of course. They always did. That's how they were around here. Nice. He'd been only been drunk or stupid enough to take them up on it once. Most bloody awkward night of his life.
Which is how he wound up watching the biggest, puffiest snowflakes he'd ever seen falling steadily from the sky through the big picture window of his empty tattoo shop on Thanksgiving.
Alone.
He didn't mind it. Not really. He'd been living this way long enough to be used to it. He'd learned to settle into the silence. Let it wrap around him like a blanket. And when it got to be too much, he'd smash it to pieces with the loudest, most obnoxiously melodic punk music he could find to soothe his soul- often one of his own creations. He wrote most of the music he played with his band. They were the closest thing he had to friends in this town. They had a fairly loyal following, not as loyal as his clients at the shop, and decidedly not, he suspected, purely based on their appreciation of their talent. Which was no great surprise as they were generally terrible.
But isn't that the whole bloody point of the whole bloody punk movement in the first place?
He didn't do it for them anyway. He did it for himself and for every friendless orphan misfit out there like him that just needed an outlet to let loose and have a good time and feel understood and not alone for five minutes.
And if a beautiful girl tumbled into his bed once in a while for his efforts? He shrugged, smiling and scratching the back of his neck as he turned away from the window, deciding to give the already impeccably clean shop a quick wipe down before closing up and heading home.
He was happy.
Mostly.
Or at least that's what he told himself.
He had a good job, a nice roof over his head, a reliable truck to get around the arctic tundra he'd somehow wound up in- what did he have to be unhappy about? Killian Jones had done his time scraping by and seen folks find happiness with much less than he had. He couldn't really complain. And that was almost the same as happiness.
Almost.
His train of thought was broken by the sound of his electronic doorbell, which he'd programmed to emulate the sound of the huge brass antiquated bells you'd find on old ships. It was needlessly loud and it usually startled his clients. Especially when the sound of seagulls calling in the distance began. Watching their transition from shock to confusion never failed to make him smile. He looked up to see if the trend continued and found himself looking directly into the most gorgeous stormy green eyes he'd ever seen.
Eyes framed by thick dark lashes and very decidedly smudged eyeliner. Whether she'd done that on purpose or not, he couldn't tell.
Yet.
"Do you take walk-ins?" She asked.
He frowned. A mess of blonde waves tumbled around her brown leather-clad shoulders. That little jacket and the grey tank top that hugged her curves couldn't have done much to shield her from the brewing storm outside.
She narrowed her eyes. He was staring. He cleared his throat and smiled.
"Apologies, lass. I was a million miles away," He admitted, only a bit sheepishly.
"It's fine," She said with a shrug, "Not the first time I've been ogled by an overly confident chauvinistic prick in guyliner." She flashed him a sardonic smile. He chuckled at that, a bit taken aback, but no less intrigued by the stunning blonde woman standing before him.
"I suspect you think I earned that," He said, leaning back against one of the rustic wooden pillars that framed the wall behind the desk in the entryway.
"I suspect I do," She agreed, tipping her head to one side as her eyes scanned him from top to bottom, sizing him up for one purpose or another that her body language wasn't revealing.
Yet.
He crossed his arms to show them to better advantage. Her reaction- little more than a microexpression that flitted across her too-expressive eyes- did not disappoint. He smirked. He didn't know why it felt like a victory, but he'd take it.
"I suspect you're right," He admitted with a sigh, "But I like to consider myself a gentleman on my better days. Name's Killian Jones," He said moving around the desk to meet her and extending a hand toward her with a warm smile, "This is my shop."
He didn't miss the way she eyed him warily before accepting his proffered hand.
"Emma Swan."
She let herself really take him in then. Deep blue, well worn jeans and a black button down shirt, rolled up to expose his artfully tattooed forearms. Dark disheveled hair that somehow looked like he'd actually just tumbled out of bed looking perfect, rather than spent hours applying a barrage of products to make it seem that way. Impossibly blue eyes that seemed to sparkle and tease and plead and promise all at once. A flash of silver dripped beneath his collar, drawing her eye down to a jumble of charms on the end of a chain, dark hair peeking out from where he'd left the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
He's beautiful.
He's ridiculous.
And he's still holding my hand.
Now they were both staring. A smile tugged at his lips, threatening to spread. He wet his lips to try to hide it.
She bobbed in a quick curtsy to break the tension. He laughed.
"Gentleman, huh?" She teased, flicking her eyes to their still joined hands, though in all fairness, she hadn't let go either.
Then he leaned over and placed a sinfully slow kiss on her hand, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.
"Aye, Swan, I'm always a gentleman."
It was the comical wink he gave her that broke the almost magnetic pull of this man that seemed to be drawing her in, almost entirely against her will.
Almost.
Cocky bastard, she thought.
"I bet," she said, rolling her eyes. He smiled, standing up and releasing her hand. She swayed on her feet a little, her body and the alcohol coursing through it betraying her. He missed none of it.
"Alright, love?" He asked, resisting the urge to reach for her again to steady her. A warning look in her eye told him not to press his luck.
"Fine," She said brusquely, peering around the shop, "Doesn't look like you're busy. Got time to squeeze me in or not?"
Killian Jones was aware of exactly three things in that moment.
First, he'd never been more attracted to a woman than he was to Emma Swan. Her stormy green eyes, her sharp mouth, the sheer contrast of her- hard edges and soft curves alike. Every word out of her mouth felt like a challenge. And Killian Jones liked a challenge. Especially one that looked like Emma Swan.
Second, she was clearly drunk. And because of that, he had no intention of tattooing her. It was unethical, at best, and the kind of thing that can get your shop's license revoked if the wrong person at the State Health Department found out about it.
Third, she hadn't made up her mind about him yet. There was interest, he could see that plain as day, but there was also a very clear signal not to get too close. That she'd been given the runaround a time or two and generally counted men as rubbish.
She crossed her arms and popped her hip. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Better not, love," He replied with an apologetic smile, "Bad form to tattoo a drunk girl."
"I'm not drunk," She spat, practically daring him to contradict her. He raised his brow at her, stepping very decidedly into her space. She took a deep, steadying breath.
Shit, she thought, shit, shit shit!
He was so close. Too close. He wasn't touching her. Why wasn't he touching her? His hands were still very decidedly shoved in his pockets, but he smelled like salt and leather and spice and her gaze flitted between his impossibly blue eyes and his delectable mouth, lips slightly parted. She couldn't decide if she wanted to pull him closer or push him away. She let out a shaky breath. He smiled.
"Perhaps not," He said in a voice so soft and so gravelly, Emma could feel all her indignation at his arrogance melting into something else entirely. He was so close she could practically feel the heat radiating off him. "But I can smell enough rum on you to know you'd bleed like a stuck pig if I let you get on that table. Wouldn't heal right." He couldn't resist tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear at that, fingertips just barely brushing the bone behind her ear before disappearing entirely. Emma shivered. The words should have infuriated her, but somehow they sounded more sweet than snarky, his touch more tentative than she expected. Whether it was the influence of the alcohol or the absolutely intoxicating man in front of her, Emma swayed closer to him, placing both her hands on his chest. He blinked in surprise, not expecting her response, his hands automatically coming to rest on the small of her back. She smirked at that, her eyes falling to his lips again before looking back into his.
"Too bad," She said with a shrug, "But I suppose if you don't want me on your table…" she teased, her nose brushing along his jawline and taking in the delectable scent of him before backing away. He smiled and let his head fall back, running a hand through his thick dark hair, tugging the ends to ground him a bit and mussing it further.
"Oh, I assure you lass, I would love to have you stretched out on any table in my shop you take a fancy to." He pressed his tongue into his cheek in a way Emma could only describe as unfair. He reached behind her and flipped off the neon 'OPEN' sign on the window behind her. "But I'm afraid you'll have to make an appointment."
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A/N: Hey friends! She's back! Is anyone still out there? Thoughts? I have a light outline here. It should be a fairly short multi-chapter. Also I'm listening to a lot of Billie Eilish writing this. So enjoy that soundtrack. Also you can thank Farawayland plugging away on "Fallen and Wanting" for inspiring me to pick up writing again as a stress reliever during this stupid pandemic.