Chapter 4: And We'll Talk About Leaving Town
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They're driving south in his truck. She's taken to flicking through the enormous leather bound binder of CDs that normally lives on the passenger side seat where she has taken up residence. She teased him about it of course, saying the only people that still listened to CD's were in nursing homes. He tried to explain to her about file compression of audio recordings and how MP3s are the murderers of masterful mixing and how much detail and artistry is lost with the lower bitrates and streaming was a thousand times worse. Emma simply blinked at him silently until he trailed off.
"Why do I get the impression you already know this, Swan?"
"Because I do," she says with a shrug, resuming her task of flipping through his collection.
"And you don't care?"
"I care," She corrects, "Just not enough to carry around 30 lbs of plastic discs everywhere I go when my iPhone works just fine."
He scrubs his hand over his face and purses his lips.
"She's an Apple user too, Lord save us…"
She laughs out loud at that.
"Yeah don't think I didn't notice your fancy Samsung GX42 Note SG four hundred and twenty five XBMR-"
"That'll do Swan, that'll do," He says, chuckling at her. She flashes a genuine smile at him and he thinks it's the greatest thing he's ever seen. She resumes her task, flipping pages, until her eyes land upon a familiar bright orange disc. She gasps.
"Less Than Jake?! I love them!"
"You sound surprised?" He says, remembering to keep his eyes on the road and not trained on her the whole time he's driving.
"I would have thought you'd be too hardcore for them," She says.
"What on earth are you talking about, Swan? Less Than Jake is totally hardcore." She laughs at that. "Put the bloody disc on."
She does. And she listens happily as he gushes to her about the influence of reggae on punk music and how ska is the truest manifestation of that. It teeters on the edge of mansplaining, but he's so passionate about it- about all music, really- and for some reason she can't explain, she finds it oddly endearing.
"What is it, Swan?" He asks, catching her gazing at him with an embarrassingly stupid smile on her face. She laughs and pulls her hat off, running her hand through her hair, messing it up more than actually fixing anything.
"You're fucking adorable," She says without the slightest hint of irony. His eyes go wide and he laughs out loud, unable to compose himself. "What?" She demands.
"Devilishly handsome… dashing rapscallion… irresistibly, mind-blowingly sexy as all hell... " He parks his truck and he's scratching behind his ear again and Emma needs to get a grip because there is no reason that should be sexy, but for whatever reason, when he does it- it is. "But adorable? I don't think anyone's ever called me that before."
"Those sound like things you say about yourself." He sputters at that and flushes slightly and Emma smirks and struggles not to squirm in the soft leather seat, knowing it's at least a little bit true. "And you are adorable. So there. First time for everything."
Kililan looks down, shaking his head and smiling as he climbs out of his truck. Emma follows suit, looking around as she shuts the door.
"Where the hell are we?"
"It's a bar," Killian concedes lamely.
"You do know I work in a bar, don't you?" She says, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Aye!" Killian chirps merrily, "But this one has pool tables. And better music. And alcohol of a decidedly lesser quality." Emma nods appreciatively.
"Sounds perfect."
He opens the door for her. It's a sweet gesture, but she can feel the heat simmering between them and she can see it plainly in his eyes as she walks past. She definitely does not swing her hips more than she needs to as she walks through it and he definitely does not shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for them.
Drinks are ordered. She removes her jacket and he sees she must have changed her top at the end of her shift. She's dressed in jeans that fit her just right and a black shirt she's clearly cut into a tank top and worn to death. It's printed with the name of a band he's never heard of before. She's wearing a red buffalo plaid flannel button down too, but it's practically threadbare and she's left it hanging open and Killian swears it's like she doesn't know how to dress for the Minnesota cold, but can't really complain.
True to his word, Killian sheds a few of his layers in the heated bar. Emma doesn't try to hide the hunger she feels as she watches him unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers itch to do the work for him, but she doesn't. He's left in a heathered black henley and jeans. He's left a few of the buttons undone and she can see a tiny bit of white undershirt peeking out from the placket, which proves a pleasant contrast to the edges of tattoos she can't quite make out with so much of him still covered up. It's a problem she'd like to remedy, but she doesn't, choosing instead to slake her thirst with the rum and coke that tastes spicy and sweet and burns going down and something about that feels just right for an evening with Killian Jones.
There's a live band playing on a small stage just inside the door and Christmas lights are twinkling dimly everywhere, but the pool tables are upstairs and out of the way enough that the music provides a nice ambiance to the evening rather than a hindrance to the conversation that continues its natural flow.
She's absolutely smoking him at pool and he finds it as wildly attractive as every other thing about her. After finishing her drink, she removes the flannel and Killian gets his first proper look at her tattoos. There's a little faded flower on her wrist that looks like a standard rookie stick-and-poke job with India ink at a party. He knows he saw a flash of something a little more sophisticated at her hip when she took her flannel off, but what really draws his attention are the outlines he can see on her bicep, peeking out behind the curtain of her long, golden hair.
She bends over the pool table to take a particularly difficult shot at the solid yellow ball that seems to be determined to dodge her. Killian moves toward her, eyes fixed on the unfinished art gracing her upper arm.
Emma misses the shot and stands up, startled to find him so close.
"May I?" He asks. Emma panics for a moment, caught entirely off guard. He glances up at her and gestures toward her arm and she lets out a shaky breath.
"Oh. Yeah, sure."
It's the first time he's really gotten under her skin since the night they first met, her cool girl facade slipping. He smiles a little apologetically and brushes her hair out of the way, guitar calloused fingertips grazing her skin and he's distracted by the trail of goosebumps he's left in their wake, but returns his attention to the subject at hand- her unfinished tattoo. He takes her hand in his and guides it gently, turning her arm to see it from various angles.
It's beautiful linework. Botanical. Peonies with wide curved leaves that sprawl in an utterly gorgeous way across the soft curve of her lithe, but strong arm and shoulder. Some of the leaves stretch towards her collarbone and he's pleased to finally get a proper look at what he's only seen the edges of before. It almost looks like an illustration from some kind of Edwardian nature journal. He can see exactly what the artist was thinking- how it flows with the natural curves of Emma's body. He'd seen something else on her back when he moved her hair out of the way, but it doesn't seem the time or place to inspect all of her tattoos, no matter how much he wants to.
The thought leads to at least a dozen other things Killian would like to do with Emma Swan in various states of undress.
"Gorgeous, Swan," He says finally, releasing her hand with no small amount of reluctance. His voice comes out a little more husky than he intends, but there it is. "Why haven't you finished it?"
She lets out a sigh and perches on the edge of the pool table, stealing the beer out of his hand and taking a long swig. He wets his lips and smiles, but doesn't say anything.
"A friend in Portland started it. I moved away before she finished."
"Black and grey?" He asks for clarity, wanting to complete the picture in his mind. He takes the pool stick from her and lines up his next shot.
"It was supposed to be full color, actually," She corrects, "Sort of a mix of that new school heavy saturation, but not cartoony or photorealistic. A more vintage feel? Muted colors."
He can see it in his mind's eye and now all he wants to do is get her into his chair, convince her to let him finish it for her.
"Is that what you came into the shop for?" He asks, taking the shot and sinking it. He's catching up to her now, only the eight ball left. That pesky yellow ball of hers still sits in an awkward position, but he doesn't expect it to get in his way. He wonders if she's done it on purpose, dulling her skill, letting him close the gap between them, but he doesn't peg her for that sort of girl.
He calls the corner pocket and takes his time lining up his next shot. He'll win if he makes it. She drinks his beer and admires the way his hair falls into his eyes. She doesn't bother getting off the pool table. She's caught him staring at her ass a few times now and if it distracts him, she doubts he'll complain.
It doesn't. He sinks the eight ball in the corner pocket, but scratches, the white cue ball following and sealing her victory. He stands up and moves toward her, setting the stick on the table. Her heart thumps embarrassingly in her chest. He raises an eyebrow at her, reminding her she still hasn't answered his question as he stands directly before her.
He retrieves his beer from her hand and takes a drink. It's an intimate thing, her sitting on the table, him standing in front of her, her knees on either side of his hips. He's so close, but not where she wants him. There are people in the bar, but not where they are and their server hasn't been terribly attentive. Emma places her hands on the edge of the table and leans back slightly, a smirk playing about her lips as her chin presses up a little, as if to challenge him. His gaze never leaves her as he finishes his beer.
"I don't know if you're the man for the job," She teases, cocking her head to one side. She sees something flash in his eyes and knows he's accepted her challenge.
He sets down the empty bottle and leans in, bracing his hands on either side of her on the pool table.
"Oh I assure you, Swan, I'm more than up to the task," his voice is gravelly and low and it sends a wave of heat rolling through her entire body. It's been building all night, this tension, her pushing, him pulling, and it's clear neither of them are talking about tattoos anymore. His necklace is swinging between his chest and hers and she feels an irresistible urge to grab it, pull him close, and kiss him.
So she does.
He smiles against her lips. His kisses are slow, searing, teasing, far from the explosion of lust Emma wants. She leans back on the table, his lips chase after her and now she's smiling. She's surrounded by him, his hands braced on either side of her, kisses growing more passionate and Emma lets out a tiny sigh of pleasure as she feels the weight of his hips pressing onto hers. He breaks the kiss with a tortured sound and presses his forehead to hers.
"You'll be the death of me, woman," He says in that low raspy voice she's finding she can't get enough of. She smiles at that, pressing herself forward, kissing his mouth, his jawline, his neck, tracing his collarbone with her tongue, nipping playfully at his skin as her hands reach for his torso, finding their way beneath his shirt, seeking the heat of his bare skin. He laughs and wraps his arms around her, hauling her into an upright position and setting her on her feet.
"Why'd you stop?" She protests, a little breathlessly.
"I think you overestimate my self-control, Swan," He says, running a hand through his hair.
"Who needs self-control?" She says, placing her hands on his hips and pulling them back to hers, placing a torturously languid kiss at the base of his throat, dipping her tongue into the hollow she finds there. He lets his head fall back and he chuckles, hands sliding from her waist down to her ass. She hums appreciatively, finding his lips again and claiming them. He groans and hauls her upwards. She laughs, wrapping her legs around him as she grips his shoulders with her hands, loving the feel of them as the muscles in his arms tense.
He kisses her hungrily, hands gripping her tightly, but she doesn't mind. He breaks the kiss too soon and practically growls in her ear.
"I do, Swan, if I'm not going to have you right here on this bloody table." She feels another wave of heat roll through her at the thought of that, but with it comes the awareness that while alone, they're still in a bar and Emma doesn't really want to be arrested for public indecency. He nips at her earlobe playfully before placing a hot, open mouthed kiss on her throat.
"There are tables in more private places, you know," She prompts, swallowing hard, "My house isn't far." He pulls back to meet her eyes and the hungry look he finds there is the end of any resistance he might feel about jumping into bed with her too quickly. He smiles and kisses her again.
"As you wish," He replies, setting her down on her feet, but not releasing her. He kisses her hair then pushes it out of the way and says in her ear, "Whatever you wish." His voice is gravelly again and laden with the unspoken promise of a thousand things and Emma wants all of them.
She's also quite sure she's going to spontaneously combust if they don't get out of this stupid bar right now. Her eyes meet his and she finds no trace of irony in his piercing blue gaze which seems to freeze and burn her all at once.
They're interrupted by the girl with bright red highlights and matching lipstick who's been sporadically offering them things they don't want from the bar. She enters the room and clears her throat.
"Check?" She offers, a look on her face that shows she's equal parts amused and disgusted.
"No need," Killian replies, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and tossing a large bill on the table. "Keep the change, darling." The girl's half-hearted disapproval melts into full-on good natured humor at this.
"Have a good night!" She calls on her way out the door.
"Oh, I intend to," Killian whispers for Emma's ears only as he turns his eyes back to hers and claims her lips once more.
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A/N: You can all thank a guest reviewer named Krystal for this. I had intended to take their date in an entirely different direction. But it'll keep for the next one. Also! If you're curious about my inspo for Emma's tattoo you should check out Alice Carrier at Wonderland Tattoo in Portland. Her artwork gives me life. And if you're feeling like Killian's a weirdo for constantly having large bills on his person, then you probably don't know any tattoo artists very well and maybe I'll have Emma tease him about that and explain it in the story, cause I guess it could be confusing. And lastly- I totally did change the name of this fic from "Looking At Me Like I'm See-Through" to "Taste of Ink" because it fits better and feels right and I'm super sorry if that confuses anyone!