For goddesswan on tumblr.
prompt 10: blind date
Emma scowled. The better part of an hour had passed and yet she couldn't see any sign of Mary Margaret nor did she receive a response to the numerous texts that Emma had sent in the past hour. The restaurant looked like the type of place someone might go to celebrate, but from an outside appearance, it didn't look much different than any other restaurant in downtown Storybrooke.
Storybrooke wasn't even that large, there was absolutely no reason that Mary Margaret wasn't waiting for her already, especially since Emma had taken fifteen minutes longer than normal to show up. Deputy Booth wasn't the fastest man in the world, she half thought his body was made of wood from the slowness of his movements when it came to switching shifts.
Funnily enough, it only showed up when he was arriving at work and yet his hitherto unknown relationship to fast moving superheroes seemed more prominent when his shifted ended for the evening.
Familial relationships to fictional characters aside, Emma wanted nothing more than to head home and snuggle in her bed, but a promise was a promise, no matter how drunk Emma might have been when she made it.
(The answer was very, but it was Mary Margaret's bachelorette party and Emma hadn't expected her to remember something that occurred over five months ago).
She tapped her fingers on the wheel of her bug and, right as she considered leaving, her phone buzzed at her side.
06:27pm. New message. Mary Margaret Nolan. Sorry Emma I didn't hear my phone. Come inside!
… There was no way that Mary Margaret had been inside the entire time. No way at all.
And yet Emma climbed out of her car anyway, grumbling while she made her way to the door of the restaurant. Her eyes narrowed. It wasn't very fancy looking, the type of place that welcome riff-raff like Emma as a teen and exhausted, overworked Emma of the present without any qualms, and yet the heavenly smell of cheeseburgers nearly made her drool.
"Nolan," Emma ventured when someone finally questioned her.
The hostess' eyes flashed with knowledge – Emma suddenly didn't trust that look and regretted more than ever that she hadn't just called Mary Margaret to meet her outside – and then gestured for her to follow. Another woman lead her to the back of the room, to a private secluded section. Emma's brain screamed set up with every step and her words were only confirmed when the hostess gestured her into a booth containing a dark-haired person.
A dark-haired man and definitely not the dark-haired woman that Emma had been expecting.
"Don't tell me," said Emma, pinching her nose as the woman left them alone with a sly wink. To whom, Emma didn't know. "You're Killian, right?"
"Guilty." He grinned, absently spinning an empty glass on the table with one hand. "So, I take it my mate isn't here to complain about the woos of marriage already?"
"And I take it my mate isn't here to gush about the beauty of her new home," Emma said as a reply.
"Afraid I've owned my home for a few years, but I can certainly exclaim over the Jolly Roger's magnificence to any ear that wishes to listen."
"Flatterer," she said dryly. "Your house is named after Captain Hook's ship?"
"My ship is named after Captain Hook's ship."
"…You live on a ship?" In her weaker moments, Emma considered buying a boat and living off one too, but that seemed foolish when her car worked in a pinch. Now she could afford the crummy apartment she called her home.
"Indeed! She's a marvel."
"We're still talking about your ship, right?" Emma found herself sitting, but only because a server needed to get by and not for any other reason, thank you very much.
"Doubt me? I can show you."
Despite herself, she laughed.
He blinked and then smiled. "I will claim that was a planned question from the start, but in a hypothetical situation, I would say I only meant to show you pictures."
"I'll call bullshit either way so let's see it," she said, curious and she leaned across the booth to examine the phone as he held it up to her. In retrospect, she could have just taken the phone from him to see it, but Emma hadn't been thinking of that in the slightest.
No, she wasn't thinking of whether his eyes were really that blue or if it was the trick of the light. No, she wasn't thinking about the way his hair fell in his eyes. No, Emma was not thinking about Killian Jones like that in the slightest, no matter what Mary Margaret spouted about him being just her type.
Emma didn't have a type.
Except she did.
And he hit every tick on the list and then some.
His lips twitched as though he knew and she certainly couldn't know that he was thinking the same of her curly, pony-tail strewn hair, the flecks of amber in her green eyes, or the strange little half-smile that he definitely wanted to see as a full-blown smile.
No, she definitely didn't know that, as they debated on the merits of ships versus cars for sleeping arrangements (read as: ships are roomy, but cars are portable), that he thought David's wife was very right about Emma Swan.
She was definitely his type.
(She texted Mary Margaret an hour later with a threat about fixing her up with anyone ever again).
(The next day, she sent her a thanks and a winky face and left it at that).